The Devil's Chord
by jdschmidtwriter
Summary: A famous composer has died. Her elderly butler insists she was murdered. Sherlock takes on the case, only to face the complication of Vivian Walker - the unexpected heir to the Frost Estate. Someone wants her dead, and it's up to Sherlock and John to protect her, whether she wants their help or not. Solving this mystery and keeping Vivian safe may be their greatest challenge yet.
1. Chapter 1

This novel is AU, as it was written prior to the release of Sherlock Series 3. As a result, there is no Mary, Sherlock's parents are very different, and Moriarty isn't back. Sherlock has returned following The Reichenbach Fall, and he and John have repaired their friendship. There will be no romantic relationship between the two, only brotherly love between the best of friends. There will be bickering though. Loads of it.

The entire novel is complete. There are 30 chapters. You can expect a new one posted every Friday. Happy Reading!

* * *

><p>Doctor John Watson was going to throttle his friend, Hippocratic Oath be damned.<p>

It didn't matter that their cab driver would witness the crime. John could pay the man off by giving him Sherlock's stuff. A win-win.

"You solved a thirty-year old cold case during breakfast and the murder of a political activist before tea." John pinched the bridge of his nose. "And I'm not even counting the fake diamond you so kindly revealed to that poor woman."

Sherlock pocketed his mobile. "If he truly loved her, he would have purchased a genuine gemstone. Isn't that how it goes with you sentimental lot? I did her a favor."

John's lips thinned. "Haven't you done enough for one day?"

"Don't be an idiot." The world's only consulting detective and the biggest prat on the face of the planet thumped the barrier separating them from the cabbie. "Forget Baker Street. Take us to Stryder & Chapel."

Their driver made a u-turn. Apparently, they were now on their way to visit an expensive law firm.

"Aren't you at least going to tell me about the voice-mail?"

"No, I don't believe I will. You're clearly not interested."

Sunlight shone through the cab window and cast a halo around Sherlock's dark, curly hair. Oh the irony.

John glared. "You're being ridiculous."

Unswayed, his bloody-minded friend refused to speak for the remainder of the drive.

* * *

><p>"Do no harm," John muttered as he followed Sherlock into a conference room.<p>

There were too many witnesses here anyhow. Far too many to pay off. Although, if anyone here knew the detective, they'd likely cheer John on as he punched him.

Rows of dark wooden chairs encircled a podium. A stout, spectacled middle-aged man with a ruddy complexion and expensive suit stood behind it, rifling through a large stack of documents.

A few people already seated glanced their way then returned to their quiet conversations. Sherlock chose a seat in the back and John, praying for patience, sat down beside him, the cushion surprisingly comfortable for such a posh looking chair. His face reflected back at him in the polished marble flooring.

"What are we doing here?"

Sherlock's gaze flicked from one attendee to the next. "I'm deciding whether we take this case or not."

"And what exactly is the case?"

"Murder, hopefully, or we wouldn't be here."

He frowned. "We've done missing person cases before." In fact, they'd rescued a kidnapped journalist a few months ago.

Sherlock drummed his fingers across the arm of the chair. "Yes, but only when desperate. Homicides are far more interesting."

"Right, because taking a case where you might actually save the victim instead of identifying their killer is boring."

"Precisely. Kidnappings are irritatingly predictable. It's always a family member or close friend committing the crime."

More people entered the room. A family of four chose the front row, while several groups of two's and three's took up the remaining seats.

A dark-haired man eased into the row in front of them and let out a sharp hissing breath as he sat. He cast a beseeching look at the woman beside him. "I promise you, this is it."

"I'll believe you once I've heard the will, Matthew." Her manicured nails glinted as she settled a designer bag across her lap.

Matthew shifted in his seat and massaged the threadbare elbow of his faded blue jumper. He twisted around and caught John's eye. "Have you got the score, mate?" A pained smile twisted his mouth. "I'd check myself, but my mobile's busted."

"That's a ruddy shame. I can check," John said, selecting the sports app on his phone. "Let's see, Saints just pulled ahead of the Tigers. Twenty-one to sixteen. Eight minutes left on the clock."

Matthew grimaced. "Do you think the Tigers have-"

The man behind the podium cleared his throat and an anticipatory hush fell across the crowd. Matthew faced forward.

"Ladies and gentleman, you are here today to bear witness to the last will and testament of-"

The conference room door opened. Everyone turned around to stare at the latecomer. A woman, tall, slender, and dressed in stark business attire, walked inside. Her high heels beat a sharp staccato against the marble.

She took the nearest seat available, which happened to be right next to Sherlock. John had never seen anyone with such perfect posture. It was as if a steel rod had been surgically attached to her spine.

The woman pushed a button on her mobile then looked up at the lawyer. "Sorry," she mouthed, adjusting the Bluetooth device on her ear.

The lawyer shuffled the paperwork on his podium. "As I was saying, you've been called here today to bear witness to the last will and testament of Ms. Rebecca Elinore Frost. My name is Edmund Hiddleston. I am the lawyer in charge of Ms. Frost's estate. Before we begin, I must verify attendance. When you hear your name, please respond."

He read off a list. Unsurprisingly, a number of people shared the Frost surname.

"Noelle Graves," the lawyer called.

"That would be my mother," answered the woman beside Sherlock.

Mr. Hiddleston gave an irritated sniff. "Substitutes are not allowed. The notice I sent out made it clear it was necessary for all listed to be here."

"I'm afraid that would be rather difficult, as she's dead."

"Dead?" The lawyer dropped his pen and gazed at her in consternation.

Flipping through the pile of paperwork, he muttered something uncomplimentary about a new secretary. He reached a page at the bottom of the stack and slid it out. "Your mother is Noelle Graves, born the 13th of March 1952, correct?"

"Yes. She married my father, Jamison Walker, in 1976."

"Why isn't your father here then?" Exasperation colored his tone.

"He and my mother were killed in a skiing accident when I was fourteen," she replied, her tone so matter of fact she could have been discussing the weather. Granted, it had to have been at least fifteen years since the accident. She appeared to be in her late twenties, possibly early thirties.

The lawyer eased his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "Do you have any family members who are not dead? Aunts? Uncles? Siblings?"

She shook her head and a few strands of red hair came loose from a bun secured by a large metal clip. "I had an older brother, but he's passed on as well. I'm afraid you're stuck with me, Mr. Hiddleston."

The lawyer gave a small cough. "I see. It appears the information we have regarding your mother is sorely out of date. Did you bring the death certificates and your birth certificate?"

She nodded.

"My assistant will collect them when we've finished here." He paused, his pen poised for action. "I didn't get your name, Miss?"

"Walker. Vivian Walker."

Mr. Hiddleston nodded then continued on down the list.

A white-haired gentleman stared in their direction. John couldn't decide whether the impeccably dressed man was watching Sherlock or Miss Walker or perhaps the painting on the wall behind them. Although, if he had to bet on one of the three, he'd wager the old man's attention was absorbed by the woman. She fidgeted with her mobile, spinning it around in one palm in a practiced movement.

Sherlock eyed the phone, seemingly fascinated. It appeared perfectly normal from John's vantage point, but who knew what the mobile looked like through the eyes of Sherlock Holmes? For all he knew, his friend had deduced she made a living as a magician, preferred tea over coffee, and enjoyed long walks on the beach.

Mr. Hiddleston opened an official looking leather binder and several people leaned forward.

"Ms. Frost's will was written in letter format to recipients of her estate. Please wait until I have finished reading before voicing any concerns." He gave the group a stern look as if he expected someone to pipe up right then with some ridiculous query.

Satisfied, he continued. "To my composing critique group, you never failed to challenge me while at the same time supporting my efforts. I gladly leave my vacation home in Italy to be divided amongst the six of you. May it be a place where the creation of music continues to thrive. _Legato_, my friends."

A cheer went up from the right side of the room. The lawyer shook his head and resumed reading.

"To my faithful friend and butler, Henry Giles. Thank you for your many years of service, for helping me to manage my estate, and for ensuring I always left the manor looking my best. I trust you will ensure I look appropriate when I am finally laid to rest. The guest house at _Aria_ is yours. I have set aside a large sum for you to retire comfortably, should you desire to do so, however, I am certain the heir to my estate will see the wisdom of keeping you on."

The elderly gentleman who had been watching Miss Walker gaped at the lawyer, then dabbed at his eyes with a spotless handkerchief.

"To my great niece, Beatrix Frost."

A girl in the front row gave a startled squeak.

"I've deposited considerable funds into a trust account for you. It should be enough to put you through school at Royal Academy. Don't let your parents try to push you into law school. I'm proud to know the love of the performing arts will continue on in the family. Knock 'em dead, Beatrix, and for God's sake don't take a stage name.

The properties in France, Kent, and Belfast will be sold. Monies earned will be distributed to a number of charities benefiting those in need and supporting the arts."

John smiled. He imagined he would have liked Rebecca Frost. She sounded kind and generous.

"To the rest of my family-" The lawyer paused. His gaze twitched to the crowd, then back to the letter. "You greedy sods. You will never see a penny from my estate. You only bothered to be in my presence as I grew old in the hope of currying favor. I only wish I could savor the look of shock on your face when you realize your efforts were in vain."

John sucked in a breath. A ripple of discontent spread across the crowd, angry murmurs filling the air. Sherlock looked away from Miss Walker's mobile. His eyes gleamed with renewed interest.

A vicious string of curse words spilled out of Matthew's mouth and his hands gripped the arms of the chair.

"I'm not finished," the lawyer said. The audience quieted, but the tension in the room remained taut like one of Sherlock's violin strings.

"Finally, I come to the lion-share of my estate. This includes _Aria_, royalties from my music, the flat in Bristol, and the rest of my investments. They are currently valued at twenty million pounds. I give this to my childhood friend, who is the reason why I became a composer in the first place. Thank you for encouraging me to live out my dream. I give you the Frost fortune to do with as you please. I name as my heir, Noelle Graves."

Miss Walker's mobile slipped out of her hand and bounced across the marble floor. The sound echoed in the sudden silence.

She lifted a hand to rub at her temple, mouth agape. "There must be some mistake."

The stout lawyer drew himself upright. "We do not make mistakes at Stryder & Chapel."

Matthew exploded out of his seat. His chair skittered sideways. "The will is wrong," he shouted. Fists clenched, he shoved past the chair to tower over Miss Walker.

"You bitch. Somehow you're behind this. You've tampered with the will. There's no way my sister would deny her own flesh and blood."

Concerned for her safety, John moved to stand, but Sherlock caught his eye and shook his head. Reluctant, he sat back, only faith in his friend's judgment preventing him from coming to the woman's aid.

Miss Walker held steady palms up. "I assure you Mr. Frost, I've done nothing of the sort."

"I don't believe you," Matthew said, now nose to nose with her.

"You should," Sherlock said, drawing the man's furious gaze.

"Shut your bloody gob. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Actually, I do." A cold smile cut across Sherlock's face. "I know your bookie will be displeased when he discovers you're unable to pay your debt, especially considering your latest rugby bet has failed. Judging by your discomfort while sitting in a decent chair, his men roughed you up a few nights ago. I wager the inheritance notice saved you from dismemberment in a dark alley. I also know your wife is going to leave you for another man, the fortune you promised her the only reason she's stayed with you. Shall I go on, or have I properly convinced you that I do, in fact, know what I'm talking about?"

Sherlock's icy words of contempt echoed across the conference room.

The man recoiled and turned to stare at his wife. A red flush crept across her cheekbones. Her chin lifted. She rose from her seat, designer bag in hand, and left the room without a backwards glance.

A muscle in Matthew's stubble-covered jaw spasmed. He glared down at Miss Walker. "This isn't over."

He shot a final scowl at Sherlock and Mr. Hiddleston, then stalked out of the room.

The slam of the door broke the spell over the crowd. Men and women surged forward to surround the lawyer, voices raised. Mr. Hiddleston slammed the leather binder against the podium. The bang startled the angry mob into silence.

"Ladies and gentleman. If you have a concern or wish to make an appeal, please queue in front of the podium." He cast a severe gaze across the room. "We will have order or I will have you removed."

Men and women jostled one another to be the first one in line. Security guards entered the room followed by a young woman in a blue business suit.

"Inheritors of Ms. Frost's estate will need to leave identification with my assistant, Matilda," Mr. Hiddleston said, nodding towards the brunette, who stood holding the door open. "She will meet with you in the lobby. I will then contact you within the next two business days to schedule a time for you to sign the appropriate documentation."

Miss Walker and those named in the will wisely left the room.

"Well, that wasn't boring," John murmured.

"Hmmm," came the distracted reply. Sherlock, leather gloves now removed, ran long fingers across a shiny, black mobile phone.

A phone that most definitely belonged to one Vivian Walker.

"Please tell me you aren't planning on keeping it," John said.

"Yes. I've decided to give up being a detective for a life of petty thievery." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I simply wanted to examine the device before returning it. Have you seen a model like this before?"

John took the offered device. The phone was sleek, lightweight for being the size of his palm, and incredibly thin. A few rows of oddly textured buttons void of identifying numbers or letters lay beneath a darkened screen. He couldn't manage to power on the phone despite pushing all the buttons. Conceding defeat, he handed the mobile back and shook his head.

"I've never seen anything like it," Sherlock said, looking as if he itched to take the device apart right then and there.

"Perhaps Miss Walker will be kind enough to tell you where she got it," John said. They headed out the double doors of the conference room.

The hallway opened out into a spacious lobby, the room dominated by a large walnut desk. Tasteful potted plants lined the walls. Miss Walker removed a manila envelope from a leather messenger bag and gave it to the young woman behind the desk. She then stepped to the side to allow the elderly butler to have his turn.

Miss Walker rifled through her bag and a look of complete panic crossed her face. Odd that she chose now to panic rather than when Matthew Frost had shouted at her. She hurried back towards the conference room.

"Miss Walker," Sherlock said.

She spun around so fast the leather bag bumped against her hip. It was a nicely curved hip, John noted, sadly hidden beneath loose-fitting black trousers.

Sherlock held up her mobile and her agitated expression relaxed.

She met them halfway across the lobby. John was tickled to discover that she and Sherlock were nearly the same height. In fact, she had him beat by half an inch due to the heels she wore. Sherlock's eyes dropped to her shoes for a brief second.

John grinned. He bet it disconcerted his friend to have someone above his eye level for once.

Sherlock handed over her phone and she smiled. "It appears I owe you my thanks for not only distracting Mr. Frost, but for returning my mobile as well."

"It's our pleasure," John said, cutting in before Sherlock could say something abrupt, disparaging, or rude.

He offered her his hand. "Doctor John Watson."

Her grip was firm, confident.

Sherlock took her hand next. "Sherlock Holmes."

The welcome in her green eyes faded. She dropped his hand and took a step back.

John frowned.

Sherlock cocked a brow. "You have quite an unusual phone."

Miss Walker's smile went brittle. "Yes, I do. I'm afraid I have an appointment to get to. Thank you again for your help today." She gave them a brisk nod and headed for the exit.

"Pleasure meeting you," John said.

She strode out the front door, heedless of the pouring rain.

Sherlock stared after her, pale blue eyes narrowed.

"So, not a fan then," John said.

Sherlock slid his leather gloves back on. "No, apparently not."

"You know, people usually wait until after they've met you before deciding they hate your guts."

"Perhaps my reputation precedes me," Sherlock said.

"Or maybe Vivian Walker has something to hide," John mused.

Sherlock snorted. "There's not a person on this planet who hasn't got something to hide."

John raised his eyebrows. "Even you?"

Sherlock smirked. "Me? I'm an open book."

"You're a ruddy liar."

A smile tugged at Sherlock's mouth.

Not exactly reassuring. What could Sherlock possibly have to hide?  
>He swallowed. Perhaps it was best not to think about it. Sherlock liked to do odd experiments on body parts after all.<p>

The old butler rushed over to them. "Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Holmes. I didn't think you'd be able to make it on such short notice."

Sherlock waved the thanks away. "Your voice-mail indicated the possibility of an interesting case."

"How can we help you, Mr. Giles?" John asked.

The elderly man leaned in close. "Rebecca Frost was murdered."

John blinked. "How can you be so sure?"

His shoulders sagged. "She told me."


	2. Chapter 2

John kept his expression open and polite. It was his doctor face, honed by years of working with patients who were crazy, senile, liars, or all three.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Mr. Giles ran a shaking hand across his forehead. Bleak, blue eyes looked back at John, the lids red-rimmed, and beneath them, dark circles sank deep into his wrinkled skin. Exhaustion or emotion or both bleached the butler's complexion to clotted cream and John hastily stepped forward to catch his elbow as he swayed sideways.

Thankfully, Mr. Hiddleston's assistant noticed the old man's distress and kindly offered them access to an empty meeting room. A corner of the spacious office contained a full service tea cart, complete with an electric kettle and individually wrapped snacks. After making sure Mr. Giles was seated comfortably at the mahogany table, John plugged the kettle in and sorted through the wide selection of biscuits. Alas, there were no Jammie Dodgers to be found.

He handed the trembling butler a steaming cup of chamomile tea. Hopefully, it would take the edge off his anxiety. Tea always made John feel better. Over his five-year friendship with Sherlock, he'd consumed gallons worth of PG Tips. Investing in stock might be a good idea really.

"Take as much time as you need," John said with a smile.

The elderly man nodded, huddled over the steaming cuppa.

Sherlock stared out a wide window, hands shoved into the pockets of his long, black Belstaff coat. Water slid down the large pane partially obscuring the view of the city. The rain alternated between a soft patter and thunderous downpour, as if it couldn't seem to make up its mind.

John made tea for himself and Sherlock, taking care to add a generous amount of sugar for his friend. The man could use the calories. Settling for the ginger biscuits, John placed the tray onto the table where Mr. Giles sat sipping his tea.

Picking up a second packet of biscuits, John tossed them at the back of his friend's head. Sherlock's hand shot up and he snatched the missile out of the air a second before it could hit its mark. A wide smirk reflected clearly in the window.

"Nice catch." John shrugged off his disappointment. "You need to eat."

Sherlock turned around and stuffed the biscuits into his coat pocket. "I'm working. You know my rule."

Yes, John did know the rule. However, the rule was stupid and bound to get Sherlock hospitalized one day. Sure, a few medical articles indicated a possible link between improved cognitive focus and intermittent fasting, but Sherlock took it too far, like he did with most things. Honestly, it was like trying to herd a cat sometimes.

"At least drink your tea." He slid the cup across the table.

His friend rolled his eyes, but took a seat and accepted the tea without further argument.

Good. Their little exchange had succeeded in distracting Mr. Giles. His breathing had steadied and the color had returned to his face.

Sherlock leaned forward and smiled. "So. Tell me about the murder of Rebecca Frost."

The old man's brow furrowed. "Why are you smiling?"

John winced. "He's just pleased you're looking better than you were out in the lobby." He shot a warning glare at Sherlock, who made no effort at all to agree or even school his expression into something less gleeful. "Why don't you tell us what happened?"

The butler took a shaky breath. "Ms. Frost came down with bacterial pneumonia ten days ago. She was always a bit frail. When she was a child, an illness damaged her lungs making most physical activity impossible. It's why she turned to music. This particular virus hit her hard. Doctor Bingley, her primary physician, gave Ms. Frost an injection of antibiotics and over the next three days, she appeared to improve, her appetite and strength returning. Her breathing was still labored, especially at night, and supplementary oxygen was necessary while she slept."

He took a sip of tea. "Last Friday, I came into her room to see if she needed anything before I turned in for the night. Manuscript papers lay scattered across her comforter. She enjoyed working while in bed, but they weren't normally in such disarray. When I approached, she turned on her side and whispered, 'Someone is trying to kill me.' Her words were slurred. I thought she was half-asleep and experiencing some sort of night terror."

"Did she have a history of nightmares or sleeping problems?" John asked.

The old man stared into his tea cup as if an answer lay hidden somewhere in the dregs. "No, I'd never seen her like that before. I told her not to worry, that it was just a bad dream. She relaxed and nodded off. I left the door cracked. Whenever she was ill, I slept in the room across the hall from her in case she needed my help.

At 3 o'clock in the morning I woke to an odd beeping sound. Once I gathered my wits, I realized it was coming from her room. I hurried inside and found her in bed. She wasn't breathing. I called an ambulance, but by then it was too late."

His voice hitched. "She was already gone."

"Were there any signs of a struggle or disturbance in the room?" John asked. Often people jumped to strange conclusions at the sudden death of a loved one and Mr. Giles was clearly suffering from lack of sleep, not to mention emotional trauma.

"No, nothing like that. Her skin was still warm to the touch when I found her and the room was exactly as I had left it."

"Did you discover the source of the beeping?" Sherlock asked.

Mr. Giles shook his head. "I believe it stopped shortly after I arrived in Ms. Frost's room, but I'm not certain. I confess I was distracted by the arrival of the medics and the ensuing chaos."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Aside from Ms. Frost saying someone was trying to kill her, what has you so convinced she was murdered? What aren't you telling me?"

Mr. Giles hesitated. "There were tears in her eyes, dripping down her face. So much so, the ink smeared on a piece of music she'd been in the middle of composing."

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling and sighed. "You'll have to do better than that."

The butler leaned forward. "Ms. Frost never cried a single tear in the twenty years I knew her. She thought crying was repulsive and a sign of weakness. Furthermore, she never would have allowed her composition to be damaged in such a manner. She took great pride in her work."

"What did the coroner say?" John asked.

Mr. Giles stiffened. "He said her medical history made it clear she died of respiratory failure caused by a sudden relapse of her pneumonia. I doubt he did a thorough examination."

John resisted the urge to shrug. Some viruses could go latent for a few days before coming back with a vengeance. Bacterial pneumonia in particular was known for its tendency to be resistant to certain antibiotics and often resulted in chronic infection. The second bout was often far more dangerous than the first.

"Why aren't you going to the police?" John asked.

"And risk the media finding out? They'd have a field day. No, this needs to be resolved quietly. I want Ms. Frost remembered for her life, not her death." His blue eyes glittered with unshed tears. "She wasn't just my employer for the last twenty years. Ms. Frost was my family and my dearest friend. Please tell me you'll find whoever hurt her."

John glanced at Sherlock. The man's face remained impassive. So, it was going to be up to him then. He always got stuck with this part. Trying to tell a distraught person there hadn't actually been a murder and that they needed to seek out a different kind of help was awkward at best. At least Sherlock hadn't called the client a moron and stormed out of the room.

He pasted on his doctor face once again. "Mr. Giles, we truly appreciate you contacting us." He paused, searching for the kindest words possible.

"And we'll be taking your case," Sherlock finished.

John goggled at him. Why on earth were they taking the case? It wasn't even a murder.

The butler's shoulders sagged. "I can't thank you enough, Mr. Holmes."

"I'll need to examine Ms. Frost's room."

"Of course." Mr. Giles pulled out a pocket planner from the inside of his coat and set the tip of his fountain pen against a page. "Would tomorrow at noon suffice?"

Sherlock failed to respond. He was far too busy staring out the window. A blot of blue ink blossomed across the paper. The butler stared at Sherlock for a moment before finally turning to John.

Well, Sherlock didn't have any social engagements which would interfere. If it weren't for murder cases and his refusal to cook, the man would never leave the flat. John checked his own calendar on his mobile. He had a date scheduled with Abigail tomorrow, but it wasn't until early evening. He couldn't imagine it taking very long for Sherlock to determine the case wasn't really a case. It was beyond him why Sherlock was bothering to waste his time on it in the first place. Perhaps the detective was deeply moved by the old man's sad story.

Right. And Mycroft was the Queen of England.

"Noon tomorrow should work just fine," John said.

The old man penned in the appointment, then pulled out a sheet of monogrammed stationary, and wrote something down on it. He passed the page to him and the parchment caught on the dry skin of John's hand, releasing a fragrance which smelled faintly of pine. Unbelievable. The stationary was scented. People actually spent money on this sort of thing. Of course, Sherlock had all his clothes personally tailored, so nothing should surprise him at this point. He glanced down at the paper. Mr. Giles had written the manor's address on it. It was located in West Sussex, roughly an hour away from their flat.

Sherlock stood, flicked up his coat collar, then strode out of the room. No wave or word of goodbye. He didn't even bother shutting the door behind him.

Mr. Giles gazed at John, his expression bewildered. "Was it something I said?"

John cleared his throat. "No, no. Sorry. He's just busy thinking now, working on the case as we speak."

God, that sounded lame.

A faint smile spread across the butler's face. "I can see similarities between Ms. Frost and Mr. Holmes. The brilliant ones are always a bit strange, aren't they? She had all the appliances in the house tuned to the key of A. That way, if the phone, microwave, or doorbell were to go off at the same time, the resulting sound remained harmonious. I grew rather fond of her quirks over the years."

Mr. Giles' smile faded away. "I truly appreciate you both taking on my case. I know you'll find whoever is responsible."

"We'll do our best to find out the truth of what happened."

John shook the old man's hand and then hurried from the room. His friend had been known to desert him.

The moment he stepped outside, the heavens burst open and buckets of water sheeted down. He was soaked in a matter of seconds. Wiping the rain out of his eyes, he spotted a cab across the street.

He ran across the road and opened the door. Lo and behold, there sat Sherlock, fiddling with his mobile. As soon as he slid inside, the cabbie took off, headed in the direction of Baker Street. It would be wonderful if they actually made it home this time. He shifted in his seat and his water-logged shoes squelched against the floor.

Sherlock glanced at him. "You know, if you'd left when I had, you would have avoided the downpour."

"If I'd left when you had, I would have very rudely abandoned an old man in an office." He shot an accusing glare at his friend. "He's already confused enough as it is. Why do you insist on encouraging him?"

Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket and gave John his full attention, pale eyes assessing him. "You don't think it was murder."

"An elderly woman with chronic respiratory disease contracts bacterial pneumonia. There are no signs of a struggle or forced entry. Sounds like natural causes to me."

"Based on those facts alone, I would agree with you, but you're not seeing the whole picture."

"What am I missing then?"

"There were oddities in Mr. Giles' account of what happened. Her warning. The beeping noise. Her tears."

John threw his hands up in the air. "She could have had a bad dream. He could have had a bad dream. And, Sherlock, human bodies do odd things when they die. Tears aren't abnormal."

"Those are all very reasonable explanations for what Mr. Giles described, but they're not the only possible answers. There may be more to the story than meets the eye. Only first hand data can provide a final answer regarding her death, be it natural or not."

John sighed. "Fine, but you better not make me late for my date with Abigail."

"I wouldn't dream of it. You'd have a very upset woman on your hands, and your subsequent efforts to appease her would distract you from our case. Inefficient."

John shook his head. "I'd be the one upset. You haven't even met her. Abigail is laid back."

"I don't need to meet her, to know her. The photograph on your mobile tells me more than enough. Besides, this is your seventh date."

"What does it matter?"

Sherlock stared at him. "She's a thirty-seven year old pharmaceutical rep. Agnostic. Owns an orange tabby cat. Travels frequently for work. Responds to your text messages in under three minutes. Besides your early dinner reservation at The Wolesely, she's arranged for a classic film marathon at the Prince Charles Cinema for the two of you tomorrow evening."

"I told you about the last one. Do you have a point besides showing off?"

Sherlock sighed. "You won't be leaving the cinema until after midnight."

"So?"

"How can you possibly be so thick and still be alive? The cinema she chose is across the city from our flat. I expect it's only a few blocks from her place. She intends to invite you in for _dinner_."

He blinked. Oh. A slow grin spread across his face. "So, I'll be enjoying two dinners then."

The first would involve actual food, while the other, well, wouldn't. Although Abigail did fancy chocolate.

"You'd better wear something other than your horrid jumpers. She has a wool allergy."

John studied his friend's stoic face. "You're just making stuff up now."

Sherlock shrugged. "You'll find out sooner or later."

They fell silent. The only noise came from the purr of the cab's engine and the pelting of the rain against the windscreen.

He cast a sideways glance at his friend. Sherlock had to be taking the piss out of him. Abigail would have told him by now if she was allergic to wool. He'd worn a jumper to every single one of their dates.

John's smile returned, wider than the first. Sherlock had a possible case to distract him, while he had an excellent evening to look forward to. Things were looking up.


	3. Chapter 3

The rainy October weather and subsequent traffic made the drive unpleasantly long. Sherlock's legs twitched with impatience, as if ants crawled beneath his skin. A snore came from the other side of the cab where John lay slumped against the window, drooling.

It never ceased to amaze him how his friend could effortlessly doze off into peaceful slumber, like flipping a switch. Although, he shouldn't really be surprised. John's brain was a simple electrical circuit. The current traveled in a continuous loop until it was interrupted by some kind of need. Sleep. Food. Women. Sentiment. Flip the switch and watch Doctor John Watson light up or fade out.

No, Sherlock didn't envy his friend's enslavement. Unlike a simple circuit, his own brain was a microprocessor, a central processing unit with integrated circuits. Data flowed in through his senses, each byte processed for significance, the useful information placed in storage and the detritus set aside for deletion. In a sense, he was as much a slave as John, his own system embedded with the need to solve- everything. Not enough voltage and he'd shut down. Too much and he'd overheat. Such was the frailty of genius.

It was twelve on the dot when the cabbie stopped outside an immense iron gate on the sleepy side of West Sussex. Two pillars stood on either side of the entrance, the words '_Aria Estate_' carved into the wet granite.

John stirred as the gate slid aside with a clang.

"Have a nice nap?" Sherlock asked.

John rubbed a hand across his face. A red splotch glowed on his cheek from where he had leaned against the glass. "If you hadn't played the violin all bloody night, I wouldn't have needed one."

Sherlock shrugged. John couldn't understand. Playing the violin helped relieve the pressure in his mind. It didn't work as well as cocaine, but the consequences were far less severe. Insomnia was a small price to pay compared to addiction.

Six years ago, he'd created a 7% solution of cocaine designed to limit the drug's negative effects, but dependency crept into his veins, corrupting his entire system. The change had been so gradual, he hadn't recognized the signs of his imprisonment until it was too late. The withdrawals had been hell, his body and mind consumed by fiery agony.

Sherlock sighed and his breath fogged up the window, exposing smudges from dozens of dirty fingerprints. He knew better than to think he was truly free. Addiction was a cruel mistress, her whispered offers of oblivion still a sweet temptation at times. Mycroft's relentless pestering for him to find a flatmate had nearly driven him to fratricide, yet in hindsight, his brother's logic made sense. Sherlock's self-control had been weak at best and John's arrival at 221B proved to be far more advantageous than expected. He'd been clean ever since.

His mouth curved as John stretched and gave a jaw-cracking yawn.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Sherlock's smile faded and he shook his head. "I'm merely pleased you managed to get some rest. You obviously needed it."

John's eyes narrowed as if he didn't quite believe his explanation. Fortunately, the man was overtaken by another yawn and he dropped the matter.

Sherlock shifted in his seat, smoothing out the wrinkles in his maroon shirt. Perhaps his faithful friend was more like a power supply monitor than a simple circuit. John ensured he maintained certain limits and never failed to take action when he stepped out of bounds. His friend was utterly predictable, but complex in his own right. John helped ground him, though he'd never admit it aloud.

The cab wound its way down a well-kept road. They passed five Victorian greenhouses, a lake, and a number of gardens before the house even came into view.

They pulled up in front of a large manor built of grey stone. Dark green ivy wound along its craggy walls. There were nine chimneys and judging by the window placements, exactly seventeen rooms, excluding the kitchen, dining area, and wine cellar.

Sherlock knocked on the cab barrier. "Someone will be out to pay you shortly." He exited the car. John followed.

The estate was in excellent repair, the lush lawns well-manicured. Red valerian climbed freely across the paving and up the stairs to the main entrance. Dense plantings intermingled, spilling across borders which were intended as a guide and not a prison. Sherlock took a deep breath and the rich scent of woodsmoke, green plants, and damp earth filled his nose, so different from Baker Street. An hour from London, and yet it felt like a world away.

The arched wooden door opened as they walked up the short stone stairway. A red-haired teenage boy dressed in black attire ushered them inside.

The entrance hall was decorated in an old-world style, with Victorian touches here and there. Dark wood paneling contrasted with white crown molding, while a massive stone fireplace took center stage. The warmth from the crackling fire was welcome after the chill of the outside air.

A middle-aged woman approached and relieved them of their coats. She wore similar clothing to the youth, indicative of Giles' preference for a professional uniform, unusual amongst wealthy households these days. It almost felt like he'd traveled back in time.

Mr. Giles walked into the room, footsteps silent against the thick ornate carpet. He wore a black suit, dark tie stark against a white pressed shirt. Not a single hair out of place. Unlike John, this man knew how to dress well.

"Thank you both for coming," Mr. Giles said. He handed the young man a handful of notes and the lad slipped quietly out the front door. The cabbie would undoubtedly be pleased with such a generous tip. Giles gave them a moment to warm up. "Would you like tea before investigating Ms. Frost's room?"

John's eyes lit up at the offer, mouth opening to no doubt accept the invitation, but Sherlock beat him to it. "No. We'd prefer to get started immediately."

Sherlock ignored John's mutinous scowl and followed Henry down a long hallway. Reaching the west wing of the manor, Giles stopped in front of a set of double doors. He unlocked them using an old brass key and held the door open for them to enter.

"I'm afraid I have other duties to attend to," he said. "If you need anything, pull the servant's bell and someone will assist you."

Sherlock nodded and he and John entered Rebecca Frost's expansive rooms. The sitting room walls were paneled in the same dark wood as the entryway, while ivory sconces placed at regular intervals provided much needed light. A large bookcase contained texts on musical theory, the performing arts, and a handful of classics. Two peach colored wingback chairs and an oval coffee table sat facing a white marble fireplace.

Sherlock bent down to examine the coffee table. He ran a leather gloved hand across the smooth surface of the wood. His fingers cut a clear path through a fine layer of dust. "Good."

John looked up from an unenthusiastic examination of the fireplace mantle. "What?"

"Dust."

"And that makes you happy? Why? Planning on reporting the staff to Giles?" John asked, rubbing a hand across his stubble-covered jaw.

"No, I'm going to commend them." He smirked at John's look of confusion.

"Why?"

"Because Giles managed to keep everyone out of the rooms since Rebecca Frost died. Dust means our crime scene is in far better shape than I expected."

"That's perfectly splendid, but I still think we're going to strike out on this one," John grumbled. He did a double-take as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.

Sherlock's lips curved. He had wondered how long it would take for him to notice.

John grimaced and ran a hand through his sandy brown hair, attempting to fix the bit that had flattened during his nap.

Sherlock met John's brown eyes in the mirror. "Would you care to make a wager on it?"

His friend's mouth thinned. "No, definitely not." He headed towards Ms. Frost's bedroom.

"Pity," Sherlock said, following behind the army doctor, who was clearly smarter than he appeared.

Gold and cream colored bedding lay in disarray across a king-sized bed. Nightstands framed either side, while a white-cushioned headboard arched against the back wall between them. To the right, sheer white curtains hung closed across a floor to ceiling window. A few paintings decorated the remaining walls. A _Renoir_, _Monte Clair_, and _Waterhouse_. All originals. Mycroft would have had an aneurysm over the mismatched collection.

Sherlock examined the left side of the bed. A few stains marred an otherwise spotless satin pillow case, likely due to salt residue, indicative of the tears Giles had mentioned. There was a rectangular shape faintly outlined upon the surface of the nightstand, the color considerably lighter than the dark wood's natural shade. Sherlock removed his glove and lightly ran a finger over the markings. The wood was raised ever so slightly and minuscule bubbles brushed against his skin.

"We should get this carpet for our flat." John rocked back and forth on his heels. "I bet it feels amazing on bare feet and I reckon I deserve something nice for putting up with you."

"It wouldn't be very practical," Sherlock said, annoyed at the interruption.

"I suppose you're right. You'd just spill a chemical on it, or worse, light it on fire doing an experiment on carpet fibers."

Sherlock merely nodded. Perhaps his friend would shut up and allow him to observe in peace.

John sat down on a plush love seat in the corner of the bedroom. "Wake me up when you find actual evidence of a murder."

His friend's mood hardly seemed improved by his lengthy nap in the cab. Perhaps the lack of tea also had something to do with it.

Sherlock looked over the bedroom a second time. Wrong. Something was wrong. He flipped on all the lights, but it was still too dark in the bedroom for his liking. Flinging open the curtains revealed an excellent view of the flower garden and although the sky was a grey mass of clouds, it still managed to provide additional light.

There! To the right of the bed, in front of the nightstand, were two round indentations in the carpet.

Sherlock crouched beside the imprints. One indentation sat more deeply than the other, but both were roughly the size of dinner plates.

He slid the nightstand away from the wall, revealing an electrical outlet. A small, round plastic device was the only item plugged in. An automatic timer.

Sherlock smiled. "I'm afraid you're going to have to postpone your second nap."

"I am?" John asked, rising from the chair.

"Yes, and you're also going to have to pull the servant's cord so we can speak with Mr. Giles."

John walked over to the left side of the bed and tugged on the gold-tasseled cord hanging from the ceiling. A harmonious tone sounded followed by a woman's voice. "How may I be of service?"

John jerked backwards. Sherlock grinned. A clever architect had hidden an intercom system within the walls, allowing the look of the old calling style to remain undisturbed. "Yes, we require Mr. Giles' presence as soon as possible."

There was a small pause. "I'm afraid Mr. Giles is currently taking a phone call. It may be a short while before he's available. I'll send him in as soon as he's finished."

Sherlock frowned. Surely the man who hired him could end a phone call to discuss a murder. Before he had a chance to articulate a particularly scathing reply, John piped up. "Would you mind terribly bringing us tea while we wait?"

The woman's voice warmed. "Of course not. I'll have a tray brought to you immediately."

"We're much obliged," John said.

"It's our pleasure," she replied. A second tone sounded, signaling an end to the call.

John turned around. A triumphant smile spread across his tired face. How could someone possibly be so thrilled over tea? Judging by the man's thrice daily indulgence off the stuff, it was clear Sherlock wasn't the only one with a tendency towards addiction.

He sighed and rose from his crouched position. "We may as well wait in the sitting room."

Before they even had a chance to settle into the peach wingback chairs, a bell sounded, coming from the outer door of Ms. Frost's rooms. This tone was a slight variation on the first, but still in the same key. The double doors opened and two ladies wheeled in an intricately carved wooden tea cart. The sharp aroma of coffee teased his nose. Perhaps this wasn't such a bad idea after all. The women left as quietly as they had come. John was so enraptured with his tea he barely managed to mumble out a thank you before they disappeared.

His friend lifted a covered plate to reveal a number of finger foods. There were cucumber with mint, smoked salmon on pumpernickel, and water-cress egg salad sandwiches. Raspberry scones with clotted cream and jam rounded out the spread.

John placed three sandwiches on a plate and set it on the coffee table in front of Sherlock, then happily filled a plate for himself.

The scent of the herb infused butter made Sherlock's stomach growl and he scowled at his body's betrayal. He slid the plate back over to John. Now was not the time to be eating.

John frowned over his tea cup, but allowed Sherlock to drink his coffee in peace. He consumed Sherlock's plate of food and a second cup of tea before finally settling back in his chair with a sigh. The change in his friend's countenance was remarkable, his good humor restored by mere food and drink. If only it were that simple for him.

"Tell me what you've discovered so far," John said, brown eyes bright.

"I'd prefer not to explain myself twice."

John grumbled into his tea cup. The bell sounded again and Mr. Giles walked into the room.

"Old habits," the butler said. As he looked around the room, his shoulders slumped, ruining the fine line of his clothing. With a shake of his head, he straightened his posture. "Mirabelle said you wanted to see me?"

"Yes. I have answers for you." Sherlock set his coffee cup down on the table and walked into Ms. Frost's room. The other two men trailed behind him.

He turned to face Mr. Giles. "Before I begin, I have one question for you. A simple yes or no is all I require."

The butler's salt and pepper eyebrows rose.

"Recall the beeping noise you heard the night of Ms. Frost's death. Was it tuned to the key of A like the rest of the manor?"

The old man's eyes widened. "No, it wasn't. The sound was completely unfamiliar."

Sherlock repressed a sigh. Was it really so difficult for people to follow instructions? He gave the older man a false smile. "I'll just go ahead and tell you what occurred."

He waved a hand at the exposed outlet. "The automatic timer plugged into the wall is set to provide power from 9pm until 4am."

Sherlock moved over to the nightstand on the left side of the bed. "The markings on the wood here are due to a combination of heat and moisture."

Mr. Giles opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock held up his hand. "I'm not finished. You only think you know what was in this room."

He spun around to face the bed and pointed at the two round marks on the carpet. "There were two tanks there. One contained oxygen, the other did not."

The butler made a sound in protest, but Sherlock interrupted him. "Don't bother disagreeing with me. You'd be wrong."

The old man shut his mouth. Ah. Silence at last.

"A heated vaporizer sat on this nightstand, its purpose to provide oxygen rich humidity into the air. It was hooked up to one of the tanks, with the automatic timer providing power to the machine during its allocated time. The beeping noise you heard was an alarm indicating the humidifier was out of water. The lack of water caused the machine to overheat. The tank it was hooked up to was not filled with oxygen, as its indentation in the carpet is considerably deeper."

Lines of strain appeared on Giles' face. "But both of the tanks were the same. A medical supply company delivered the oxygen tank and the vaporizer to the manor the day after Ms. Frost fell ill."

"And I expect the very next day, someone in a uniform came to the door with a secondary tank, insisting the first one only be used as a backup or some such nonsense."

"Yes, they did," Mr. Giles finally whispered.

John shifted from one foot to the other. "So, what was in the heavier tank?"

"I need more data, though I'm certain it was nothing good," he replied.

"What's the next step?" Mr. Giles asked, his face pale.

Sherlock smiled. "I'll need to examine Ms. Frost's body."

The butler pulled out a brass pocket, then shook his head. "I'm afraid that will be rather difficult as her funeral is in a little over an hour. The rest of the staff and I will be leaving shortly for the service. She's to be buried."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Open casket or closed?"

The old man blinked. "Closed."

"Excellent," Sherlock said and rubbed his hands together.

The other two men stared back at him with vacant expressions. What was going on in their funny little minds?

Probably nothing at all. He spun around and headed for the door.

Glancing over his shoulder, Sherlock noticed John and Mr. Giles lingering in the bedroom. He frowned. "Let's go. We haven't got a moment to lose, unless you don't mind being late for your date?"

John hurried to catch up. Switches, indeed. Sherlock needed only to mention the date and his friend moved with the greatest alacrity. And yet, he found himself more amused than irritated by his friend's dependencies.

Sherlock's mouth curved into a wide smile. After all, the game was on.


	4. Chapter 4

John jumped as Sherlock slammed his palm down on the worn leather seat between them. "This is ridiculous."

It should have taken half an hour to get to St. Swithin's Church. They had left ahead of the staff, allowing more than enough time for the drive. Neither of them had expected a school bus to spin out on the wet road and block their way. John checked his watch. The memorial service had already begun and Sherlock grew more agitated with every passing minute. The window of opportunity to examine Rebecca Frost's body was rapidly closing.

Sherlock leaned forward and pounded on the barrier separating them from the cabbie. "Get us there in the next ten minutes and I'll pay you an extra seventy-five pounds."

The man's eyes narrowed and the toothpick rolling between his lips went still. "One hundred."

"Fine, but only the standard fare if we're over by even a second." Sherlock pushed a few buttons on his mobile, then held it up so the cabbie could see the timer on the screen. He pushed the start button. "Now, drive."

The other man smiled and the toothpick slotted neatly between a gap in his teeth. "You gents better hold on."

John barely had a chance to brace himself before the cab flew into reverse, tires squealing across the wet asphalt. They sped backwards on the shoulder, passing a long line of cars whose horns began to sound. The wiper blades swept across the windscreen in a mad rhythm, revealing the gaping faces of frightened pedestrians.

"This is illegal," John cried. His stomach churned as they bounced up the side of a curb and back down.

The cabbie snorted. "Only if you get caught, mate."

John's head smacked against the window as they made an abrupt turn into an alley which was never meant to accommodate a vehicle. Their driver didn't seem to mind, merely whistling a jaunty tune as the side mirrors scraped against the brick walls. Shooting out of the alley, the car spun 180 degrees, the view outside a dizzying blur of watery grey. With a deft spin of the steering wheel, the cabbie straightened the car out and accelerated down the road.

John rubbed at his aching head. At least they were now driving in the proper direction. He'd begun to regret eating quite so many finger sandwiches. Glancing over at his friend, he was annoyed to find Sherlock completely unperturbed, gaze intent on the timer's count down.

"You have five minutes," Sherlock said.

Their driver chuckled. "I'll have you there in three."

They sped down a number of side roads, across a bridge, and bumped over a divider before lurching to a halt in front of St. Swithin's church. The parking lot was full. Apparently, everyone else had taken a different route.

Sherlock held up his mobile so both John and the driver could see the remaining time: 2:07.

The man grinned as Sherlock placed a thick wad of notes into his open palm. "Pleasure doing business with you."

St. Swithin's ornate spire stretched towards the heavens. Arched Norman windows and weather-worn slate walls gave the building an ancient feel. John caught the heavy wooden door of the church before it slammed in his face, his friend far too intent on getting inside to bother holding it open.

Noise from the outside traffic cut off as the door shut behind them. The silence of the place felt thick and constrictive, their footsteps swallowed up by dense maroon carpet. The stained glass windows, cathedral ceiling, and sweet scent of incense lent a feeling of solemnity to the whole place. Sherlock approached the service desk and a sober-faced woman looked up.

"We're here for Rebecca Frost," Sherlock said.

The blonde-haired woman frowned. "I'm afraid her service is almost over. You'll need to slip in the side door so as not to disturb anyone." She pointed down the hall. "Third door on your right."

Sherlock took off down the hall, his lengthy stride eating up the distance. John caught up with him. "What are we supposed to do now?"

His friend shot him an annoyed look. "We find a way to examine her body."

He and Sherlock quietly slipped through the side door and into the nave. The room was lit by candles and what light managed to filter through the stained glass windows. The wooden pews were jam-packed with people. A soft instrumental song played in the background and white floral arrangements decorated the aisles and front of the church. A priest dressed in black stood on a raised platform in front of a casket. Dark red curtains hung directly behind, leaving the back half of the stage hidden from view.

"Rebecca Frost will be dearly missed. She was a true artist," the priest said, his deep voice amplified by the acoustics of the high ceiling.

Sherlock headed towards the stage, and John followed closely behind. His shoulder brushed against the stone wall as he tried to remain hidden in the shadows.

He poked Sherlock in the ribs and his friend looked back with a scowl. "Miss Walker," John whispered, gesturing towards the front row. She was seated next to Giles and a number of staff from the manor. The detective gave a curt nod.

The loud tones of an organ replaced the instrumental music. Everyone in the audience stood and began to file down the aisle towards the exit. The resulting distraction allowed them to climb a side stairway and onto the back stage.

"The staff will kick us out," John said.

Sherlock caught John's arm and dragged him further back into the shadows. His friend stared intently at two men dressed in dark suits. The younger of the two held a clipboard. The other man reached into his front pocket and retrieved a handkerchief. A neon green tag slipped out and fluttered to the floor. The man wiped at his eyeglasses with the cloth before examining the clipboard for a second time, a deep frown furrowing his brow.

"Look angry," Sherlock said, then strode over to the pair.

John followed, lips pursed in unfeigned annoyance. How hard would it have been to provide a short explanation before barreling forward?

"I need to speak to whoever is in charge," Sherlock demanded.

The older man stiffened. "I'm the funeral director and this is my assistant, Rodney. Is there something wrong?"

"There is, indeed. Do you have any idea how upset Ms. Frost would be if she knew your staff had decorated the church and her casket with oriental lilies?"

The funeral director sputtered incoherently, then shot a furious look at his assistant, who began to frantically flip through his paperwork.

"It says here that lilies were her favorite," Rodney said.

"Day lily blossoms were her favorite, not those poisonous plants you have strewn about. How can you have such incompetent staff?" Sherlock asked. He jabbed a finger dangerously close to the funeral director's Roman nose. "Let me guess, you've been out of town and left the entire thing in the hands of this incompetent twat."

The older man's hands fluttered about in distress. "I do apologize. How can my staff and I resolve this matter?"

"Remove the toxic flower arrangements from her burial site and replace them with the day lily blossoms she would have wanted. Or is it too difficult for you to honor her last wishes?"

The funeral director held up a hand. "Not to worry, sir," he said, "Rodney and I will see to it this very minute."

"I should hope so," Sherlock replied. He spun around and headed to the front of the stage. As John followed, he heard the funeral director mutter to Rodney, "If you wish to keep your job, you'll acquire day lily blossoms from the shop across the street. I'll delay the guests by leading them over to the refreshment tables. You have fifteen minutes."

Two pairs of footsteps receded and a door slammed shut, leaving the two of them on stage. Well, three counting Ms. Frost.

"We've got fifteen minutes," John said, relaying what he'd heard.

His friend's head shot up. "Find out where the funeral director left his luggage. Look for it in an empty office or storage room. Bring it here." Sherlock tapped a finger against his lips. "And get me some sellotape while you're at it."

John frowned. "Why?"

The detective ignored him, already busy sliding the decorations off the casket.

"Fine. I'll just go then," John muttered and headed towards the side door.

"One more thing," Sherlock said.

He looked back over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Don't get caught."

John rolled his eyes and headed back to the main entrance.

The woman at the front desk was on the phone and paid no attention as he walked past. The hallway was deserted, everyone led away by the flustered funeral director. The first few doors he tried were locked. Hopefully, the luggage wasn't in either of those rooms as he had neither the skill nor inclination to pick the lock. He swung the next door open and found himself nose to nose with a wide-eyed priest. The bald gentleman clutched at his chest and let out a gasp.

John released the door knob and stumbled back. "I'm terribly sorry."

The other man exhaled, then waved a dismissive hand. "Not to worry. You merely took a year off my life. Heaven's just a bit closer now."

John gave a weak chuckle, his mind racing to think of an explanation for being caught snooping about.

"Can I help you?" the priest asked, stepping out into the hallway and closing the office door firmly behind him.

John swallowed. "Erm, my girlfriend said she left her bag somewhere. I was looking for the lost and found." The idiotic words tumbled out of his mouth without conscious thought. Oh god. He was lying to a priest.

The old man fixed him with a penetrating blue gaze. "Are you committing sins of the flesh with your girlfriend?"

"No," he sputtered, heat filling his face. "We certainly aren't." John swallowed. At least not until later tonight.

A cheery smile spread across the bald man's face and he clapped him on the shoulder. "Good, good. I suppose I can take you to the storage room then. Parishioners leave their coats and bags there during services. Lost items are usually left there."

"Wonderful," John replied weakly. The old man led him further down the hall and opened a door on the right. The light in the room revealed a coat rack and a table covered with purses, hats, and the odd pair of shoes.

"I'll just leave you to it," said the priest, leaving John alone in the storage room.

He walked around the room and stumbled over something sticking out from below the table. He peeked underneath and there it was. It was one of those over-sized luggage bags with wheels, the kind women tended to fill to bursting. Who would have thought a funeral director needed so much space? A neon green tag was attached to the zipper. John popped up the handle and rolled it out of the room and back down the hallway.

The receptionist was still on the phone. She put her hand over the receiver when he stopped in front of her desk. "May I borrow some sellotape, please?"

The distracted woman slid open a drawer and shoved a roll of tape into his hand. He smiled. That wasn't so difficult. Checking his watch, he quickened his steps.

Arriving back on the stage, he found Sherlock had rolled the casket behind the curtains, the lid now open.

"There's not enough light," Sherlock grumbled as he bent over the old woman's corpse. Rebecca Frost's grey hair fell loosely around her face, her eyes shut, expression peaceful. Despite it being a closed casket service, a sheen of make-up painted her wrinkled skin a light rose. She was dressed in a pale blue gown, the toenails of her bare feet painted to match.

John cleared his throat. "I've got the luggage."

Sherlock glanced over at the rolling bag. "Toss the contents onto the floor."

Requesting an explanation at this point would only lead to frustration, so he complied, only pausing when he discovered a set of adult footie pajamas, decorated with skulls. Choking back a nervous giggle, he set the pajamas on top of the large pile of clothing.

Sherlock moved to stand behind Ms. Frost's head. "I'll grab her shoulders and you grab her legs."

John frowned. "What do you have in mind exactly?"

His friend sighed, letting the front half of the body flop back into the casket. "We're taking her with us, of course. I have neither the time nor the light necessary for a proper examination."

John gaped at his friend. "Stealing a corpse is illegal."

A single brow rose. "Only if we're caught. Besides, you just stole a man's luggage."

"That's different," John protested. Stealing luggage was not the same as stealing a dead body.

His friend rested his hands on the front of the casket and leaned forward. "We have to take her now. Don't you want justice for Ms. Frost?"

John glared at him. "Don't try to manipulate me, Sherlock. It won't work. Why can't we just tell the funeral director what's going on?"

"Don't be absurd. If one person finds out, there's a possibility everyone will, including the murderer. We don't want to show our hand at this point."

John closed his eyes, counted backwards from ten, and then opened them. "Fine."

"Good, now grab her feet."

They lifted her out of the casket and onto the floor, next to the empty bag.

"I don't think she's going to fit," John said. Rebecca Frost had been a tall woman.

"Well, she's going to have to. It's not like we can carry her out like this."

"This is wrong. This is so wrong," John said as he guided the dead woman's legs into the bag.

"Wait, you have to fold her knees up to her chest."

John did so and a groan gurgled forth from the mouth of the corpse. The noise startled him so badly, he fell back a step.

Sherlock stared down at the body, an expression of horror on his face. "Give me the tape!"

John shoved the sellotape into the detective's waiting hand and his friend tore off a number of pieces, sealing Ms. Frost's mouth and nose. "Stupid, stupid. I should have done this before moving her. I only hope the residual gases haven't escaped. Help me get her in before someone comes back. We're running out of time."

With a bit of creative finagling, they got her completely inside the bag.

John tugged at the zip. It made it halfway before refusing to go any further. "It's not going to close. There's not enough room."

"We'll make room." Sherlock stepped on top of the case, holding onto the edge of the casket for balance. He bounced up and down. There was a crunching sound and the luggage gave way.

"We've desecrated her body," John moaned. They were going straight to hell.

"It's not as if she cares. She's dead," Sherlock said, zipping the bag shut. He picked up the funeral director's belongings and tossed them into the casket. "This isn't going to weigh enough. I need you to find me something heavy to place inside. They'll notice if it's this light."

Stomach twisting, John searched around the back of the stage, grateful for the distraction. Deep in the shadows, he found a step ladder. He brought it over to Sherlock. "Will this do?"

"Yes, just arrange the clothing around it so it doesn't slide about when the casket is lifted."

After John finished with the task, Sherlock lifted one end of the casket and gave it a shake. No noise came from within. He closed the lid and rolled it back out to the front of the stage, then placed the floral decorations on top.

"Time to go." Sherlock gestured imperiously for John to take the luggage.

He responded with an emphatic shake of his head. "This was your idea. You can bloody well take her yourself."

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine, I don't see why you're being so squeamish about it. You're a doctor."

The detective walked out the back door, pulling the luggage behind him.

"Yes, and as a doctor I have moral standards I strive to uphold." His eyes watered in response to the abrupt change in lighting, the overcast sky glaringly bright.

Sherlock scoffed. "By moral standards, you mean an inconvenient code of conduct created by man to govern proper behavior."

John shook his head as they walked down a pathway behind the church. "So, you'd prefer anarchy, then? More murders to solve?"

"No, I simply consider the rules to be flexible guidelines, adjusting them as the situation requires it."

It was John's turn to scoff. "Meaning, you only follow the rules when it's convenient."

Sherlock looked down his nose at him. "Sometimes the rules need to be broken. Lady London clothes herself in shades of grey, after all."

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock fancied himself to be a philosopher, waxing poetic about moral ambiguities. It made him sound like a pompous ass, the only family trait Sherlock appeared to share with Mycroft. Although, Mycroft managed to be a pompous ass all the time.

They rounded the corner of the church and into a crowd of people in line for refreshment. Bloody hell. John shot a horrified glance at Sherlock. What if they ran into the funeral director and he noticed his luggage bag?

Sherlock bent down as if to tie his shoe and deftly pocketed the neon green tag hanging from the zip. They wove their way through the large crowd, the heavy bag tottering on its wheels over the church's green lawn.

Red hair fluttered in the breeze, catching John's attention. Miss Walker was surrounded by a group of people chattering away at her. She didn't look particularly happy, arms folded tightly across her chest. They were nearly free from the crowd when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. John winced. They were buggered. Steeling himself, he turned to face who'd stopped him. Relief washed over him, leaving him light-headed. It wasn't the funeral director at all, but Mr. Giles.

"Were you able to do an examination?" the butler whispered, his face scrunched up in concern.

"More or less," Sherlock replied.

John coughed. "I'm certain we'll have more information for you soon."

The man's face relaxed. "Wonderful. The rest of Ms. Frost's relatives will be leaving _Aria_ in the next few days. You're more than welcome to stay at the manor to continue your investigation. I've already received permission from Miss Walker."

Sherlock frowned. "Did you tell her the reason behind our involvement?"

"No, I only said you were helping me with a personal matter."

"Good." Sherlock's gaze fell to the luggage bag. "Do you have a walk-in freezer?"

Giles blinked. "Yes, we do."

"How large?"

"100 square feet."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "That should work."

The man looked understandably confused. "So, will you and Doctor Watson be staying then?"

"Yes, you can expect me to arrive early evening. John will likely not arrive until late tomorrow morning, depending on how his date goes."

The older man's eyebrows rose. John felt like kicking his friend. Thankfully, one of the ladies who had served them tea at the manor tapped Mr. Giles on the shoulder. The crowd began to trickle towards the cemetery. Little did they know they were going to witness the burial of the funeral director's clothing and a step ladder.

The butler gave them a nod. "I'll see you gentlemen later."

They headed around the front of the church and flagged down a cab. Sherlock had a possessive hand on the luggage and wouldn't let the driver touch it, instead, settling it between them. Would the cabbie charge more if he knew there were actually three passengers?

"What do you need to perform a full examination of the body?" John asked.

"I plan on borrowing equipment from St. Bart's. I'll examine her in the wine cellar and then store her body in the freezer for safe-keeping."

"And, what, you'll put a sign on her saying, 'Experiment in Progress,' like you do with your jars of eyeballs? What if someone finds her?" John asked.

"I'll figure something out. Besides, I would have thought you'd be pleased."

John shot his friend an incredulous look. "Why on earth would I be pleased?"

"For three reasons," Sherlock said. He held up a finger as he listed them off. "One, you're not late for your date. Two, you don't have to worry about a corpse on our kitchen table."

"And the third?"

His friend shot him a smug smile. "You'll get to enjoy attentive service from the staff at _Aria_."

"Attentive service?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm talking about tea, John. As much as you want, whenever you want, for as long as we're there."

A slow grin spread across his face. "I have to say, this is one of your more brilliant ideas."

Sherlock gave the luggage bag a surreptitious little pat. "All my ideas are brilliant."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock heaved the luggage bag containing Rebecca Frost's corpse up onto the table. Transporting her body and the equipment he'd needed down into the wine cellar had been easier than expected. Giles had instructed the red-haired teen to assist him, the same young man who had answered the manor door yesterday and had brought out payment to the cabbie. He was efficient, despite his inane chatter and curious glances at the medical equipment. Sherlock ignored his questions and the young man finally fell silent, proving he wasn't entirely void of functioning grey matter.

Asher or Ashby, or whatever his name was, plugged in a lamp and aimed it at the soon to be christened autopsy table. Shelves filled with wine bottles organized by year and type stretched out across the room. The back corner of the cellar was the best place for the examination as it was hidden from view from the entryway and the prying eyes of curious servants. He removed his coat, hung it over a nearby chair and rolled up the sleeves of his maroon shirt. The chill air brushed against the bare skin of his forearms.

"Guard the entrance to the cellar. Don't come in or leave until I instruct you to do so."

The boy's face fell. "Won't you at least tell me what's in the bag? I won't tell anyone, I swear."

Sherlock drummed long fingers across the tabletop. "There's a cadaver inside."

The teen rolled his eyes. "Fine then. Don't tell me." He shuffled to the door, hands shoved into his trouser pockets, skinny elbows akimbo. "Nobody ever tells me anything."

Sherlock smirked as the door slammed shut. After slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves, he unzipped the bag, and gently unfolded Ms. Frost across the table. Her body was a little worn, but he'd seen worse. The crunching noise from earlier had been the sound of her wrist and forearm breaking, crushed at an awkward angle between her knee and chest.

A sharp pair of scissors made quick work of her gown and the silky material parted to pool on either side of her body. Judging by the lack of sutures, the coroner had skipped doing an in depth autopsy altogether. Sherlock ran a hand down her sternum and probed her ribcage. Excellent. There were no signs of additional broken bones.

Unfortunately, the sellotape had proved to be a poor seal and any lingering gases in her lungs had escaped.

Time for plan B. Light glinted off the scalpel as he made a five-inch incision between her sixth and seventh rib. He extracted a sizable sample of lung tissue and divided it among a number of test tubes.

Now for the formaldehyde. He added a few drops to mix with half of the tissue samples and set them aside. The remainder were covered in a solution of sodium hypochlorite. It would take twenty-four hours for the tissue to digest, leaving any chemical residue behind to settle as sediment in the bottom. He sealed the second set of tubes and placed them in the coldest corner of the cellar, hidden behind a 1982 bottle of _Chateau Haut Brion Pessac-Lognan_. He recalled sampling the French wine years ago, the scent of leather, smoked herbs, and the taste of black currants.

He removed a thin sliver of the now formaldehyde-preserved lung tissue and deposited it onto a glass slide. A drop of hematoxylin and eosin stain followed. Allowing the tissue to absorb the dye, he sandwiched the sample with another slide and slipped it beneath his microscope. The red of the blood vessels and the blue of the terminal bronchiole were simple to spot. He increased the magnification, searching for answers, anomalies.

Scarred tissue spoke of her history of respiratory disease and a few grey spots of pneumonia. There had to be more. He zoomed in even further. The damaged cells now looked enlarged and jagged, as if something had inflamed them.

Sherlock smiled. "You're becoming more interesting by the minute, Ms. Frost."

The coroner had been partly correct. Ms. Frost had indeed expired from respiratory failure. However, as Sherlock had deduced, a chemical of some kind had aided in her demise. Pity he had to wait until tomorrow to find out more.

With a sigh, he folded Ms. Frost back into her earlier position and covered her completely in cling film. It would at least prevent freezer burn from damaging the tissue in case additional samples were required. He shoved her back inside the bag then wrapped heavy duty tape around the luggage, effectively sealing it shut. He attached a bright orange sign he'd borrowed from St. Bart's Hospital onto the front of the bag. The notice read, 'Contagion: In case of damage or leakage, immediately notify public health.' It was highly unlikely anyone would risk tampering with the bag, especially if he had his teenage helper hide it deep within the freezer. Now, he just needed to get the young man to cooperate.

"You may come back in." Sherlock's voice echoed off the stone walls.

The teen slunk back into the room, face still twisted in annoyance. Sherlock tossed him a pair of gloves. "Put these on."

"Why?"

"Because, Ashby, you'll need them when handling this package."

"My name is Asher." He scowled. His blue eyes widened as he caught sight of the warning notice.

Sherlock waited to see whether the boy's sense of duty would win out over his fear of contamination. He needed Asher wary enough to avoid investigating the bag, but not so fearful as to refuse to help. He wasn't about to go dragging the corpse across the manor. He had better things to do.

Rapidly losing patience, Sherlock pulled out his wallet and extracted a twenty pound note. He'd have to make another tedious withdrawal at this rate. He cleared his throat. Asher's gaze wrenched away from the orange sign and locked on the bill. Moving the note to the left, Sherlock watched as the boy's eyes followed after it, much like a dog tracking a treat.

He had him. Greed trumped fear every time.

Sherlock tightened his grip on the money before Asher could take it. "You will hide this bag in the deepest, darkest corner of the walk-in freezer and you won't speak of this to anyone. Have I made myself clear?"

"I'll hide the bag in the freezer and I won't tell anyone."

"Excellent." Sherlock released the money into the young man's hand. After slipping on the gloves, Asher gingerly lifted the luggage off the table and set it on the ground. Pulling the bag behind him, he slowly made his way to the door, as if any sudden movement might cause the bag to explode.

"Oh and Asher?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You may want to take a long shower after you've finished."

Asher gulped. "Yes, sir." He eased the door open and began the long climb up the stairs.

The lengthy shower would keep the young man out of trouble, for a while, at least. Sherlock chuckled. He bet John wasn't having nearly as much fun as he was. Of course, their definitions of fun were quite different.

Sherlock left the cellar and caught the attention of a passing aproned servant. "I'd like to be shown to my room."

The middle-aged woman nodded. "Of course, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock followed her across the east wing of _Aria_. The hallway was heavily carpeted, the cream-colored walls and high ceiling well-lit by a long line of simple chandeliers. Each guest room door had a musical style written across it in a flourishing script. They passed a desk decorated with an oriental vase, and a room labeled _Acceso_, before coming to a stop in front of _Sognando_. She opened the door and ushered him inside. Sherlock was pleased to note his luggage had already been placed on the bed.

"Where will John be staying?"

The woman gestured at the room directly across from Sherlock's, labeled _Pastorale_. She turned back to face him and wrung her hands. "I'm afraid dinner has already been served, but I can have something brought to your room, if you'd like."

"That won't be necessary."

"If you should change your mind, you need only to ring the bell," she said. He nodded her dismissal and she left, the door shutting silently behind her.

The blue and grey guest room was furnished simply, but luxuriously. The bed, curtained windows, and fireplace blended together in perfect harmony, reflecting the efforts of an experienced and expensive decorator. The terraced ceiling was painted to look like a summer sky. Sherlock flipped the light switch off and was unsurprised to find stars glowing faintly between the white puffy clouds. He snorted and turned the light back on. A bit contrived, but he supposed it was rather fitting for the room. _Sognando_, to play dreamily.

Despite managing to prevent a single drop of formaldehyde from touching him, the stench of the acrid chemical clung to his skin and clothing. He needed a shower. The grey marble bathroom was a far cry from the turquoise claw foot tub at 221B. Dual shower heads provided excellent coverage, the heat and water pressure exquisite. Ignoring the provided hair and body products, he opened his own travel-sized bottles. Mother had told him he'd inherited his Byron-like curls from her side of the family. They were a nuisance. Using the wrong product could cause his hair to rebel, fluffing out in a ridiculous fashion, much like Mycroft's stomach after a week of eating cake. Sherlock was willing to take a number of risks, but looking ridiculous wasn't one of them. A pity his brother didn't hold to the same standard.

He slipped on a plush white robe and stepped back into the bedroom to retrieve a fresh set of clothing. Unzipping his bag, he froze as a draft of cool air blew across the back of his bare legs. Whirling about, he came face to face with a gaping Miss Walker.

"Sorry! Wrong room." She stumbled backwards, her eyes wide. In her haste to escape, she dropped a duffel bag and bumped into a bedside table on which stood a priceless Chinese vase. It wobbled back and forth, then began to fall to one side.

Sherlock lunged forward. He threw his arms around either side of Miss Walker and steadied the toppling treasure behind her. A sharp breath escaped his mouth as he caught the vase before it could shatter.

He released his hold on the precious artifact and moved away from Miss Walker's rigid body. He found himself looking up at her. Again. Sherlock hadn't needed to look up at anyone since an encounter with a giant golem of a man five years ago. His lip curled at the sight of her ridiculously tall high heels. On equal ground, his six foot frame would have towered over her by at least three inches. Ruddy cheater.

Miss Walker tried to shift away from him, but he caught her elbow before she could knock into the table a second time. "Careful. That vase is over three hundred years old."

She glanced over her shoulder at it. A Chinese dragon and lotus flower spiraled across the pristine porcelain. "Expensive?"

"Very. Although, soon enough money won't be much of an issue for you."

Her head tilted to the side, revealing the ever present slender Bluetooth ear-piece curved over her right ear.

A drop of water from his still damp hair slipped down the side of his face, over his Adam's apple, then slid across his chest. He wiped at it and frowned. "Won't you be signing the inheritance paperwork tomorrow?"

She blinked and shook her head, a rueful twist to her mouth. "Yes, I will. It's a bit of an adjustment finding oneself independently wealthy. It doesn't seem quite real."

"After tomorrow, I imagine you'll be free to knock over all the vases you want. I suggest you start with the one back down the hall."

"Why?"

"It's a fake."

"How do you know?"

Releasing her elbow, he attempted to look down his nose at her. "Oh please. The design was poorly executed, the gold embellishment blobbed on, the color burnished rather than bright. I determined its authenticity in less than three seconds."

Miss Walker only stared at him.

"Judging by your vacant expression, perhaps I should use simpler language. The workmanship was shoddy. I don't expect you to understand, but I do advise you to take me at my word. I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I'm also a genius, but you're already familiar with my reputation, aren't you, Miss Walker?"

Her strange behavior following their introduction at the law firm was all the evidence he'd needed.

Her eyes dropped from his and his smirk widened as two bright spots of color appeared high on her cheekbones. The rosy blush spread down her neck and across her chest before disappearing beneath the neckline of her black dress.

Her hands darted forward and cool fingers brushed across his bare abdomen to clutch at the front of his robe. Gooseflesh broke out across his skin at the unexpected contact and he flailed backwards. His hands shot forward to wrench the robe out of her now vice-like grip.

Wide green eyes met his affronted gaze. "Careful. I've seen quite enough."

He went still. Glancing down, he discovered the tie on his robe had come partially undone. Not enough for Miss Walker to see everything, but enough for her to get an eyeful of his naked chest, stomach, and upper thigh. He eased the robe from her hands and tied it securely this time.

Face still red, she cocked an eyebrow. "I would have thought a genius would know how to tie a simple knot."

Heat crept up the back of his neck for no reason. He certainly wasn't embarrassed. He couldn't care less she'd nearly seen him naked or that she was questioning his abilities. It was clear the woman was intellectually challenged.

He scowled. "And I would have thought it impossible for someone to arrive at the wrong room, unless they were some kind of idiot, what with each door being labeled by name."

Miss Walker glared and his stomach muscles tensed at the level of fury he saw in her gaze.

She snatched up the duffel bag and swept out of the room. The door slammed behind her.

He shook his head. Women.

Sherlock dressed and exited the room. He had little enough time to investigate Ms. Frost's family before they left and he intended to make the most of it. Walking down the hall, he heard a girl's tearful voice coming from behind a guest room door.

"I didn't lose it, Mum. I swear I had it when we were at the funeral. I kept it in my coat pocket the whole time."

"Then I suggest you keep looking for it, Beatrix, or your father is going to blow a gasket. Mobiles don't grow on trees."

He continued down the hall. The faint sound of piano music caught his ear and he followed it to an unlabeled room. Sherlock eased the door open so as not to alert the room's occupant. He needn't have worried though. The man hunched over the grand piano was so engrossed in his playing he likely wouldn't have noticed if a herd of elephants stampeded past him.

One haunting minor chord followed after another in a slow and agonizing lament. The man faltered over an intricate passage, then allowed the discordant notes to die away, leaving the composition unfinished.

Sherlock cleared his throat and the man jerked in surprise, craning his head around to face him.

"You need to practice more with your left hand. It tenses and jumps over the more technical parts. Also, your pedaling could use some work. You sustain the notes for far too long which results in a blurring of passages."

The man stared up at him for a moment, then curled in on himself, covering his face with his hands. Rapid huffs of breath and moist gasps filled the now silent room. The man's shoulders shook with some deep emotion he couldn't name. Sherlock eyed the door. Perhaps now would be a good time to leave. First, that idiotic woman and now this sniveling man. This was why he preferred dealing with dead people.

The man raised his head and let out a loud chuckle. He spun around on the piano bench, face red and blotchy, and a lopsided grin on his face. "Thanks. I really needed a laugh."

Sherlock's brows drew together. "I wasn't joking." Was the man mad? He certainly appeared unhinged, with his blond hair sticking up as if he'd gripped at it with desperate hands.

Another wheezing laugh. "I believe you. Rebecca was always telling me the same thing. Go easy on the pedal, Neil, or watch your lazy left hand. It's a bit sad I can't even play my own compositions properly, isn't it?"

Recognition flared. "You're a member of the composing group who inherited the vacation home in Italy."

He nodded and held out a hand. "Neil Henley, computer tech by day, amateur composer by night."

"Sherlock," he said, shaking his hand.

"Did you know Rebecca well?"

"No. I'm here on behalf of Mr. Giles. I'm helping him with a personal matter."

"Oh." Any trace of lingering amusement faded from his face. "Is everything all right with him?"

Before Sherlock could formulate a reply, the music room door swung open to reveal the butler. The old man's face broke out into a smile as he caught sight of them. "Has Neil been entertaining you with his lovely compositions? He was Ms. Frost's favorite student."

Neil's answering smile wavered and he stared down at his hands. "She was my favorite teacher." His voice broke.

Mr. Giles' eyes glittered and he gripped the younger man's shoulder in silent support.

Sherlock barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Instead, he busied himself with counting the lines of grain in the black walnut wood of the grand piano. By the time the two men had managed to compose themselves he'd reached one hundred and thirty-seven. What excellent use of his time.

The butler straightened and cleared his throat. "Did you happen to ask your mother about Trixie?"

"Oh yes, I almost forgot to tell you." Neil pulled out his mobile and squinted down at the screen. "She says to give her two fish oil capsules twice daily with her food, but if her joint pain doesn't appear to improve in the next week or two, to call and make an appointment. Mum's going on vacation soon, but Doctor Finch will be covering for her."

Mr. Giles sighed. "I'll have Asher try that then. The poor lad has grown quite attached to the old girl. She's not the guard dog she used to be, but she's earned her keep all these years. Rather like myself. Were you able to find your missing composition notebook?"

"No, I haven't." Neil's grip tightened on his phone.

"That's a shame. I'll let the staff know, so they can keep an eye out for it then."

"No need. I'd hate for anyone to go to any trouble. I must have left it at work or home. You know how absentminded I can be." He stood up from the piano bench. "I do appreciate you allowing me to come here and play today. I really needed it."

"I completely understand. I'll check with Miss Walker, but I can't imagine her being bothered if you were to come by every now and then to give this beauty a workout." Mr. Giles gave the piano a pat. "And remember, young man, you're welcome to visit me anytime."

"I'll keep that in mind." Neil gave them both a nod then exited the room.

"Interesting fellow," Sherlock said. "Do you know who he works for?"

Giles smiled. "He works for Selby Jennings, a new investment bank in London. From what I've heard, he's done really well for himself. He's even got a girlfriend now. She shocked the poor man silly when she asked him out. He thought it was some sort of prank at first."

Sherlock gave a low hum in response.

The butler shook his head. "Oh listen to me, rambling on like the old man I am. I better write myself a note about those fish oil capsules before I forget." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a slender notepad, and a USB drive slipped out, landing on the carpet. Sherlock swooped down and picked it up. He handed it to Giles once he'd finished writing out his note.

"Oh thank you. I promised Miss Walker I'd give that to her this evening."

"What's stored on it?"

"It has Ms. Frost's entire will and testament on it. Miss Walker flat out refused to deal with any actual paperwork and insisted upon a digital copy and digital signatures. The attorney was more than willing to comply. It seems a bit odd to me, but you young people love your technology."

"Indeed we do," Sherlock agreed. "Were you surprised by the will?"

Mr. Giles sat down on the piano bench and sighed. "Ms. Frost's strained relationship with her family wasn't a secret. Most of them are shallow and hungry for money. I certainly didn't expect her to give me the guest house though."

"What about Noelle Graves?"

"Ah yes. Ms. Frost used to holiday at Blackpool Sands in Devon as a child. She met Noelle there and the two were inseparable for three summers. Like children often do, the two lost touch, but Ms. Frost never forgot Noelle and her supportive attitude towards her music. It's a shame she isn't alive to enjoy Ms. Frost's gift, but I'm relieved she has a daughter who can make use of it. I'm just pleased the estate didn't go to anyone in the family."

"Are any of them around this evening? I'd like to speak with them before they leave."

The older man nodded. "Ms. Frost's brother, George, and his wife Cynthia are in the sitting room. I'm afraid Matthew hasn't been seen since his outburst. He didn't even come back for his things, just left his bag in the guest room. His wife left _Aria_ today, but I assume she didn't head home."

"I'm certain you're correct. I do believe I'll go have a chat with George and Cynthia."

Sherlock headed out the door. Snippets of seemingly unrelated information whirled about in his head and amorphous theories danced just out of synaptic reach. It was aggravating and yet delightfully intriguing at the same time.

He smiled. There was nothing quite like a good puzzle.


	6. Chapter 6

John's mobile beeped for the hundredth time. Sighing, he scrolled through his latest text messages.

_I fail to see why you had to cover Sarah's shift._ -SH

_Morning sickness is not a valid excuse. Can't she take something?_ -SH

_Clearly, she's not a very good doctor._ -SH

_If you don't get here soon, I'm going to start experimenting on the staff._ -SH

Good grief. John was still frustrated over having to cut short his lovely morning with Abigail. He'd brought her breakfast in bed, intending to keep her naked for as long as possible, when his bloody mobile had rung. He'd reluctantly kissed her goodbye and headed to work to cover his co-worker's eight hour shift. Fortunately, Abigail was understanding of the situation, unlike Sherlock, the bloody man-child. His friend had expected him to arrive at _Aria_ by ten o'clock. It was now half past six in the evening and the barrage of text messages had grown snarkier as the day wore on. Sarah owed him big time.

The cab pulled in front of the manor and John hopped out.

He gave an appreciative smile to the young man who took his luggage, then hurried inside and down the cellar stairs. His shoulders sagged in relief as he caught sight of Sherlock. His friend was the only one in the chilly room, no hapless victims in sight.

The detective set a dusty wine bottle back on a shelf. "Took you long enough."

"Yes, well, it's not like I planned on being late."

Sherlock gave him a cursory glance. "I'm surprised you're still snippy after an active evening and morning of pointless relations."

John's ears warmed. Refusing to respond, he walked around the table to where Sherlock's laptop sat hooked up to a microscope. The computer's fans hummed as the machine searched through what appeared to be an extensive list of chemical compounds.

"Ah. You're irritated because you didn't get a third opportunity. Really, John, you should consider having your testosterone levels checked. I'm sure there's a medication out there that could help you with your affliction."

A muscle in John's jaw twitched. "There's nothing wrong with me or my testosterone levels." He set his palms flat on the table and leaned forward. "I can't wait for the day when you join the rest of humanity."

The logic-driven detective would go mad if he ever experienced a genuine emotion like love or desire for another human being. It would be like Christmas seven times over. If it ever happened, John planned on filming the whole thing and posting it on his blog.

"Prepare to be disappointed. I have no intention of demeaning myself in such a manner."

"Intent has absolutely nothing to do with it."

Sherlock only stared back at him, the arrogance in his pale blue eyes unwavering. John shook his head. Emotions needed to be experienced before they could be understood. At times, it felt like he was talking to a robot, but he knew without a doubt Sherlock Holmes had a heart lying dormant somewhere inside his chest. If it ever woke, all hell would break loose. He almost pitied the poor soul who stirred the slumbering beast. Almost. He'd be having too much fun watching Sherlock unravel bit by bit to care. It would serve the man right.

A few months ago, Sherlock secretly put castor oil in John's tea to determine the effect it had on an average man's bowels. The result was rather explosive, in more ways than one. His friend broke a cardinal rule: Never mess with another man's tea. Ever. John would get his revenge. He just had to be patient.

With that fortifying thought, he changed the subject. "How's the case progressing?"

"It isn't," Sherlock said, the sour expression on his face reminiscent of the time John had beaten him at Cluedo.

"What have you discovered so far?"

"Ah yes. Let's see. Where shall I begin?" The detective whirled about. "Beatrix's parents are incapable of tying their own trainers, let alone committing a murder. The few minutes I spent in their presence no doubt had a detrimental effect on my own IQ. None of the staff show any signs of homicidal tendencies. They're all so distraught over Ms. Frost's death. It's positively revolting."

"So, we have no suspects then."

Sherlock waved a hand. "Oh no, there's still plenty more ridiculous options to choose from. It could have been the clueless Miss Walker who came into my room by accident or Ms. Frost's favorite music student, Neil. The man can't even play his own compositions, but he's somehow managed to acquire a girlfriend. They could be conspiring together."

Ceasing his frenzied pacing, Sherlock spun around to face him. "I've solved it, John. The sick guard dog did it. And she is now suffering the consequences of exposure to some sort of corrosive chemical. Once my computer finds a match, we'll phone Lestrade in to make the arrest."

John folded his arms to prevent himself from slapping his manic friend in the face. "When was the last time you ate? Or slept?"

"Forget food or sleep. I need answers!"

John exhaled. "Really? Well, I'm feeling a bit peckish, so how about you accompany me upstairs while we wait for a result? You did say I could have tea anytime I want."

Sherlock cast a frustrated glance at the laptop.

The screen indicated the search was only fifty percent complete.

The detective gripped the edge of the table, then deflated, shoulders slumping. "Fine."

Heading back upstairs, John gave one of the serving ladies a winning smile. "Would you mind terribly bringing me tea? I had to cover an unexpected shift at work and haven't eaten since this morning."

She winced. "Oh dear. Why don't you and Mr. Holmes take a seat in the library? I'll bring a tray to you shortly."

"That would be lovely. Thank you."

Warm wood paneling, book-filled shelves, cozy furniture, a crackling fire, and the joy of impending tea brought a smile to John's face. With each step he took into the library, the stress of the day ebbed out through his shoes and sank into the soft carpet.

Miss Walker peered blearily up at him from a brown wingback chair. Despite the chair's comfy shape, she appeared unable to relax into it. The firelight glinted off her red hair, the smooth strands shining like polished copper.

John halted, about to sit down on the sofa across from her. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize anyone was in here. Would you prefer we leave?"

Miss Walker shook her head, then stiffened as Sherlock came into view. "Not at all. If I wanted solitude, I would have gone somewhere private."

"Really? I was under the impression all the rooms here were open to invasion," Sherlock said acidly, taking a seat in the matching chair beside her.

Her green eyes narrowed. "Then you're mistaken. One must simply turn the lock for privacy. It's really quite simple, like tying a knot."

John eased down onto the sofa and looked from Sherlock to Miss Walker. What had he missed?

Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt to provide a scathing retort, but was conveniently interrupted by a servant setting the tea tray onto the coffee table. A steaming teapot, three cups, biscuits, and a covered plate completed the spread.

"I managed to cobble something together for you," the servant said with a wink at John, before slipping out.

He lifted the lid and the rich scent of pot roast filled his nose. The juicy cut of beef was slathered with horseradish mayonnaise and lovingly placed between two slices of French bread. There were even a few seasoned jersey potatoes on the side. Barely remembering his manners, John poured a cup of tea and offered it to Miss Walker, who took it after adding a single sugar cube. He shoved a cup of sweetened tea and a biscuit into Sherlock's hand, then sat back on the sofa before his friend could protest.

John took a bite of the delightful sandwich and hummed as the savory flavors burst across his tongue. He was a happy man, especially since Sherlock had fallen uncharacteristically silent. He took another bite as the peaceful moment continued. Miss Walker gazed into the fire, teacup cradled in her hands. Sherlock stared at the back of her head and crushed his biscuit into dust, the crumbs falling onto his saucer. He'd set his tea back on the coffee table without drinking it. Stubborn git.

A teenage girl came into the library, hands clasped behind her back, and approached Miss Walker. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you'll be needing me tomorrow."

Her eyebrows rose. "What are your normal duties?"

The young maid flushed and fidgeted with the frilly edge of her starched apron. "Well, I used to bring tea to Ms. Frost and help her get dressed every morning and evening."

"While I appreciate your offer of assistance, I'm quite capable of dressing myself."

John expected the girl to flee the room, but surprisingly, she stood her ground. "What would you have me do then?"

Miss Walker's uneasy gaze darted to him, to Sherlock, then back to the distraught girl. "I'll speak to Giles and see what he suggests."

The young woman nodded, then reached into her apron pocket and retrieved a sheet of paper. She offered it to Miss Walker. "We had a staff meeting today and I was told to deliver this to you."

Miss Walker took the page. The flickering light of the fire sent shadows dancing across the document. She blinked twice, then shook her head, lifting a hand to rub at her temple. "What is this?"

"It's a questionnaire," the maid replied in a small voice. "The staff would like to know your preferences, so we can accommodate your needs when you stay here at _Aria_."

"I see." Miss Walker let the paper fall to her lap. "You're very kind, but I'm afraid I won't be staying here long. My work requires extensive travel." She smiled. "Besides, I'm very low maintenance. I wouldn't want to be any trouble."

The girl gazed at her with wide brown eyes.

Miss Walker shifted in her seat. "I suppose I could answer the questions, but I would appreciate it if you'd send me a digital copy instead." She wrote something down on the slip of paper and handed it back to the maid, who gazed at it with a bewildered expression.

"It's my email address. Is there anything else you need?" Miss Walker asked, weariness in the lines of her face.

The young woman shook her head, curtsied, then hurried away.

Sherlock's low chuckle filled the room. "If it's your intention to alarm and demoralize the staff, you're doing an admirable job."

"I don't recall asking for your opinion." She set her cup down roughly onto its saucer.

John sucked in a large mouthful of tea and choked. He gave a coughing laugh and grinned over at Miss Walker. "Sherlock bestows his opinion on the world whether it's wanted or not." His smile faded. "She did seem nervous though."

"You mean deduction, not opinion. Wanted or not, I am correct." Sherlock smirked. "Even John noticed. Only an idiot would miss the signs of distress coming off that girl. Clearly, the staff is concerned about you taking over _Aria_."

She frowned. "I don't see why. I'm not planning on changing anything."

"What do you do for a living, Miss Walker?"

A single auburn brow rose. "Is my occupation too difficult for you to deduce, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared.

Wonderful. John braced himself for the sudden onslaught of data.

The detective sat forward. "You work in an office environment. You stated you travel extensively, but I already gathered that from the size of your duffel bag and the fact you roll your clothing to maximize the available space. Your balance and posture tell me you wear high heels on a regular basis. You enjoy the power the extra height gives you, so you're not working in a position where you develop peer relationships, so not human resource management. You wear distasteful business suits in a poor attempt to minimize your femininity. This suggests you interact with high-powered businessmen. You're either a CEO, project manager, or consultant of some kind."

John eyed Miss Walker's charcoal grey business suit. It didn't look bad to him, other than the fact it hung loosely on her frame, as if she'd lost weight recently.

Miss Walker stared at Sherlock for a long moment before nodding. "I'm an organizational psychologist. Companies from around the world consult with me on how to better run their business."

"So, you work independently then?" John asked. He wished he had his own private practice at times.

"No, I work for a company who hires me out."

"Let me guess, you winnow out the bad eggs, elevate the worker bees, and increase a business's efficiency, correct?" Sherlock asked.

Her mouth twisted. "Something like that."

The detective hummed in amusement. "You must not be very good."

Miss Walker scowled. "Excuse me?"

The detective waved a dismissive hand. "Don't apologize to me. Apologize to the staff. They're the ones who are suffering from your lack of ability."

John swallowed another mouthful of sandwich. The train wreck of a conversation hadn't yet affected his appetite. Perhaps he was growing desensitized.

Sherlock continued. "You need to look at _Aria_ as a business with you as its permanent CEO. Understand how the estate functions and delegate the work accordingly."

Miss Walker's lips thinned and she gripped the arms of the chair. John knew the feeling. He often found himself wanting to strangle the man.

Giles entered the room, telephone in hand. "Miss Walker, there's a call for you. Would you prefer to take it elsewhere?"

She shot a sour look at the detective. John reckoned she didn't want to give Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing he'd run her off. She shook her head. "I'll take it in here, thank you."

He handed her the phone, then moved to stand near the fireplace.

"Hello? Yes, it is."

A disgusted expression crossed her face. "Really. Well, I'm afraid it'll cost you."

She straightened in her chair. "I'll let you decide how much it's worth to you."

There was a pause and then her eyebrows rose. "You'll make me pay? Right. Good luck with that." She ended the call with a huff.

"Oh dear. Not another one?" Giles asked, his tone concerned as he retrieved the phone from her.

"The third one today." She grimaced. "I need some air. May I borrow a car, Mr. Giles?"

The butler blinked. "Of course. There are five vehicles in the garage and they all belong to you now. Monty is available to chauffeur you, if you'd like."

"I prefer to go alone."

"Do you have a vehicle preference?"

She shrugged. "Just give me something that handles well in the rain."

"Ah, you'll want the _Maxima_ then."

John chuckled. "Ms. Frost owned a _Maxima_? I didn't expect that."

The butler smiled and shook his head. "Oh no. She nicknamed it the _Maxima_ because the engine never wore out."

John stared at the man.

"A _maxima_ is a rare musical note. It's six times as long as a whole note," Sherlock informed everyone in a bored tone.

Giles bobbed his head in agreement. "You know your music theory, Mr. Holmes. The car is actually a 1955 Bentley Continental. Stylish and safe. I'll have Monty bring it around for you, Miss Walker."

"Thank you. I'll be out front in a few minutes." She nodded to John and headed out the door, ignoring Sherlock entirely.

He didn't blame her. Sherlock was a git.

Giles pulled the tasseled cord hanging next to the fireplace and informed the answering servant of Miss Walker's plans.

"What did she mean by 'the third one today'?" John asked.

"A few individuals approached her at the funeral service claiming they'd left behind items at _Aria_. One odious man said he wanted to retrieve a painting he'd gifted to Ms. Frost years ago, while an elderly woman insisted she'd forgotten a gold necklace the last time she'd visited. I believe they wanted an opportunity to nick something from the manor. God knows what the latest person asked for."

"That's terrible," John said, leaning forward to refill his teacup.

The butler sighed. "I expect I'll have to start screening all the phone calls from now on."

Sherlock eyed the clock above of the fireplace. "The database search should be complete by now."

Mr. Giles stared at the detective. "What search?"

"I dissolved a sample of Ms. Frost's lung tissue. My laptop is currently matching images from a database with those taken from my microscope to help identify the chemical responsible for her death." He stood. "You may as well join us."

They followed the detective to the wine cellar. John made his way carefully down the stairs. It would be a shame to spill his tea.

Sherlock was already typing away like mad on his laptop, brow furrowed. He picked up his mobile and pushed a few buttons, then set it down on the table and scowled.

"Is there a problem?" Giles asked.

"I'm unable to access the Internet down here. Do you have access upstairs?"

The butler shook his head. "Ms. Frost despised the world wide web. She thought it was a waste of time. I think the gatehouse has access, but I believe it's only there to run the security system."

John frowned. "Why do you need the Internet?"

Sherlock's mouth twisted as he stared at the laptop screen. "The chemical compound found in Ms. Frost's lung tissue is unfamiliar to me."

John set his tea cup on the table. "Maybe I can help."

Sherlock scoffed. "Right."

John's hands clenched. He'd only been through bloody medical school. And if that wasn't enough, he also knew the earth revolved around the sun, unlike a certain ignorant detective. "Try me."

"The result came back as desflurane," Sherlock said.

A spark flared in John's mind. Was this what Sherlock experienced during his deductions? If so, he understood the appeal. A wide smile spread across his face.

His friend's eyes narrowed. "Tell me."

John chuckled and picked up his tea again. "Give me a minute. I'm enjoying this. Maybe I'll get a tattoo with the date and time commemorating the moment when I knew something you didn't." He grinned over at Mr. Giles. "I even have a witness."

Sherlock folded his arms. "I don't care if you petition the crown for a holiday in your honor. In case you've forgotten, Mr. Giles hired us to solve the murder of his beloved employer. You're withholding vital information while Ms. Frost's killer escapes justice. It's rather unprofessional of you."

Heat filled his face. Sputtering, John faced the butler. "I do apologize. I didn't intend to make light of the situation."

The older man patted his arm. "It's alright, Doctor Watson. I'm sure you meant no harm."

Mr. Giles removed his reading glasses from his front pocket and proceeded to polish them with a clean handkerchief.

John rubbed the back of his neck and turned to Sherlock, who smirked. He ground his teeth together. Manipulative bastard.

Giles pocketed his reading glasses. "You were saying, Doctor Watson?"

"Right. Desflurane is a type of general anesthesia. It's rapid onset and liquid at room temperature. It explains the heated vaporizer and why the tank left a deeper imprint in the carpet."

"What else?" Sherlock asked.

He wracked his brain for any other details. "It can cause tachycardia and airway irritability in higher concentrations."

"What about respiratory distress in an elderly woman with breathing problems?"

"Yes, definitely. No doctor would use that type of anesthesia on a patient with a history of lung disease."

The older man tilted his head to the side. "I'm sure you gentleman know more about this sort of thing than I do, but it seems like an odd way to kill a person. What was the point of the automatic timer?"

"I suppose it was to allow the anesthesia to inflame her airway over time." John shrugged. "Though there's really no way anyone could have known for certain it would kill her, as the dosage provided through the vaporizer wouldn't have been enough to even cause unconsciousness."

Sherlock shook his head and paced the room, muttering to himself. "Sloppy. Is it sloppy? Why is it sloppy?"

The detective stalked up and down the wine-filled aisles. He halted and spun on his heel to face them. "The killer could have easily introduced a fatal dose of anesthesia into the vaporizer the very first night. Why didn't he?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," John said.

His friend pointed at him. "Quick - list off all the reasons for anesthesia."

"Uh, well," John stuttered. "It's used to block the body's response to pain, relax skeletal muscles, inhibit motor reflexes, help a patient forget a medical procedure, and to induce unconsciousness."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "It was an accident." It came out a reverent whisper.

The butler cast John a sideways glance and he gave a half shrug. He had no idea what his friend was on about.

"It was a bloody accident! Don't you see?" The detective ran a hand through his curly black hair, then stared at them. It was almost as if he thought the intensity of his gaze could somehow force them to understand.

John folded his arms. "Explain, Sherlock."

"Ms. Frost was exposed to desflurane for three nights. Why issue small doses? Clearly, someone wanted her alive."

"Why would she tell me someone was trying to kill her then?" The butler's hands twisted around his handkerchief.

John shook his head. "Delirium or paranoia isn't uncommon with patients exposed to anesthesia, but I still don't understand the use for desflurane if it wasn't meant to take her life."

Sherlock sat down in the only available chair and steepled his hands beneath his chin. "I believe someone was trying to extract information from Ms. Frost. They went to great lengths to ensure the dosage was delivered late in the evening and spread out over a few days. The anesthesia would have made her more vulnerable to interrogation and she would have had no memory of any encounter. It's rather clever."

"Except for her unintended death," John said in a dry tone.

"There is that."

The old man's brow wrinkled. "I don't understand. Why would someone want to question Ms. Frost?"

"Maybe she discovered something she shouldn't have," John said.

Sherlock's head shot up and he focused on Mr. Giles. "The phone call Miss Walker took. Did the caller identify himself?"

The butler frowned. "Lizzie is the one who answered it. She was too nervous to approach her after the encounter in the library, so I brought it to Miss Walker myself."

The detective leaned forward. "Do you have any idea where Miss Walker was headed? Do you have her mobile number?"

Mr. Giles shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"That complicates things."

"Why?" John asked, feeling unaccountably concerned.

Arrogant blue eyes met his. "I have reason to believe our accidental killer has set his sights on Miss Walker."

They stared at him in stunned silence.

John swallowed.

Sherlock was rarely wrong.


	7. Chapter 7

"Why on earth do you think the killer is now after Miss Walker?" the butler asked, shoving his handkerchief into his pocket.

The sloppy action in lieu of the man's usual tidiness indicated genuine distress.

Sherlock frowned. How odd. Miss Walker had only been around for a few days, yet already the old man was concerned for her welfare. Strange how people were so quick to form attachments to one another. It made them far too easy to manipulate.

He raised a brow. "I can provide you with a lengthy explanation, but I expect it would reflect poorly on you if your second employer was kidnapped, injured, or violently murdered in the meantime."

The butler paled. "Should I call the police?"

He waved away the suggestion. "They wouldn't be any help."

"How are we supposed to track her down with no mobile number or any idea of where she's gone?" John asked.

"Both of you shut up," Sherlock said, earning a reproachful glare from his friend.

He didn't care. The constant data flowing into his brain overwhelmed him at times and impeded his ability to process pertinent information.

His gaze caught on the butler's fingernails. They were pitted with tiny holes, a classic sign of psoriasis.

The dark circles beneath John's eyes indicated little sleep the previous night, but his relaxed posture told Sherlock his friend had thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Utterly useless. The information was irrelevant to the problem at hand, yet every minute observation logged itself into his brain, whether he wanted it or not. It was incredibly irritating.

He shut his eyes to block out the visual stimuli, but the sounds of squeaking rubber soles and loud exhalations distracted him. "For god's sake. Stop moving. Stop breathing. I'm trying to think."

Two seconds of quiet reigned and the answer coalesced in his mind.

Sherlock opened his eyes and focused on Mr. Giles. "People utilize nicknames when they've formed some sort of absurd attachment to an object or person. Was the _Maxima_ Ms. Frost's favorite vehicle?"

"Yes, she used it often and made certain it received detailed care."

"Did she have a security system installed?"

"Yes, it was updated last year."

"Is it equipped with a GPS system?"

Mr. Giles winced. "It is. I'm daft for not thinking of it sooner. I have the paperwork in a cabinet in my office."

"Excellent. Meet us at the gatehouse. An Internet connection is required to pinpoint her location. Also, we'll need to borrow a car, a fast one. Put mine, John's, and Miss Walker's luggage inside."

John shot him a questioning glance.

"It may not be safe for her to come back to _Aria_," Sherlock said. "Ms. Frost already lost her life here."

"I'll do whatever you think is best, Mr. Holmes," Giles said, then hurried up the stairs.

Sherlock disconnected the microscope from his laptop and slid his computer into its protective case. He and John left the cellar and headed out the front door. A driver already waited to take them to the gatehouse.

Before Sherlock opened the car door, a servant ran down the front steps with a folder in her hand. "Mr. Holmes. Mr. Giles told me to give this to you."

Sherlock took it from her and entered the car.

John took the seat beside him. "Are you planning on giving me an explanation at some point?"

"Do you need one?"

The silhouettes of tall trees blurred as they sped down the drive.

"Don't be an ass. You're being purposefully enigmatic."

"It's what I do."

John sighed, but made no further protest, and they completed the remainder of the ride in blessed silence.

The gatehouse wasn't a house at all, but a cramped box, too small to accommodate the two of them, let alone the rotund guard on duty.

"Disable the security system," Sherlock said.

The man complied without question, an indication Mr. Giles had already informed him of their imminent arrival.

Sherlock detached the Internet cable connected to the panel and set it on the desk. The guard hovered beside him, the man's sickly sweet breath whuffling in and out.

Sherlock pointed to the door. "Get out."

The grey uniformed guard blinked. "What?"

There was raspberry colored stain on the man's sleeve, a matching stain on the handle of a partially open drawer, and repetitious smudges on the screen of a mobile phone on the desk. Sherlock slid the rolling desk chair out, opened the drawer and removed a pink pastry box. He set the jam-stained container on the seat of the chair and placed the man's phone on top.

He shoved the chair at the startled guard and herded him out the door. "You can finish off your jam donuts and amuse yourself with 'Angry Birds' outside."

John brushed past him to speak to the guard. "Sorry, mate. We're in a bit of a hurry."

Sherlock ignored the guard's unintelligent response and swept the junk off the desk to make room for his laptop. He connected the cable to his computer and a quick test proved the Internet was now accessible. He opened the file folder the servant had given him and skimmed through the relevant documents.

Brickhouse Security had installed a battery powered GPS vehicle tracker last October. Sherlock logged into the company's web site and clicked on the vehicle icon to track the Bentley. A map popped up with a spinning hourglass.

The door to the gatehouse opened and Asher came in, followed by John.

"What are you doing here?" Asher asked, sliding a card out of a plastic pocket holder on the wall.

"I'm working. Get out."

"I can't. I've gotta clock out."

"Well, do it faster. I don't need an audience."

The young man filled out his time card in an untidy scrawl, glancing up as the computer pinged.

Sherlock stared at the glowing red dot on the map. It wasn't moving.

John leaned around him. "77 Chatsworth Road in Worthing."

A low whistle came from Asher. "You're going to Eden for work? Maybe I should switch jobs."

Sherlock managed to turn around in what little space was available. "Tell me what you know."

The teenager grinned. "It's a posh nightclub. They have this giant apple tree growing near the dance floor and there's a crazy guy there who looks like a serpent." Asher's eyes darted away and he gave a half shrug. "I mean, that's what my older brother told me. I haven't actually been there."

"Of course you haven't," he said, going along with the lie. "Now, get out."

Asher appeared more than happy to comply, likely relieved he and John weren't going to tattle to Giles about his extracurricular activities.

Accessing the preferences on the Brickhouse Security system, Sherlock added his email to the account so he'd receive a message alerting him to any changes in activity. He also downloaded the security app onto his mobile to make it easier to track the car.

"Time to go," he said, sliding the laptop back into its case. He followed John out the door and almost bumped into his friend who had come to an unexpected stop. After slipping past him, it was easy to see why. Two floodlights from the gatehouse shone down upon Giles and a 1966 Jaguar E-type. The sleek two-seater coupe could go 0 to 96 kph in 7 seconds.

John reached out a trembling hand and caressed the shiny black bonnet. "This car was voted the most beautiful vehicle in the world." The round chrome gilded headlights were blinding in their intensity.

"I hope it's fast enough for you, Mr. Holmes." Giles handed him the keys. "The luggage bags are in the boot, but I'm afraid there's not much room otherwise."

"It's fine." Sherlock opened the door and set his laptop behind the tan leather seat. It fit, just barely. "We'll let you know as soon as we've found Miss Walker."

"Thank you." The butler gestured to the security guard and the iron gate opened with a clang.

Sherlock turned the ignition and the 4.2 litre engine purred to life. He smiled. This was going to be fun.

John double-checked his seatbelt. "How come I'm not driving?"

Sherlock tossed his phone to him. "Because I need you to be the navigator and because you drive like a half-blind grandmother."

"I do not."

"Yes, you do. Why do you think I didn't let you drive to Dartmoor years ago? We'd still be on our way home."

"There's nothing wrong with driving defensively."

"There is, when it triples your drive time."

John's driving issues originated from avoiding mines on the war-riddled roads of Afghanistan, though the man had never admitted to it.

"Where do I turn?" Sherlock asked.

John fiddled with the phone. "At the Ridley's Corner Roundabout, take the third exit onto Worth Park Avenue."

The car hugged the curve of the roundabout, the ride smooth and easy. After the road straightened out, he shifted gears and the car leapt forward in response, as if it was as eager as he to reach their destination.

Sherlock glanced at John. "You have questions."

"Yes, of course, I've got questions."

"Ask away," he said, passing a slow moving lorry.

"Why do you think our accidental killer is after Miss Walker?"

"You're not asking the right question, John."

An exasperated sigh came from the passenger seat. "What should I be asking?"

"The key issue is determining what he wants."

"Fine. What's he after then?"

Sherlock hummed. "Look at the evidence. It suggests our criminal wanted Ms. Frost alive, but for what? He was after information of some kind, something only Ms. Frost could provide."

"That's all well and good, but I fail to see how Miss Walker is now involved."

"She's the new heir to the estate. Two people approached her at the funeral saying they'd misplaced items at _Aria_ and wanted to collect them. Then a stranger calls the manor asking about another item. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

"I thought they were just greedy sods."

"The first two are. Our caller is a different story. I have reason to believe he's our killer."

"But why come after Miss Walker?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Did you even listen to her phone conversation or were you too busy stuffing your face?"

"The call barely lasted a minute."

He waited.

Oncoming headlights flashed, illuminating his friend's irritated expression. "What did I miss?"

"She told the caller it was going to cost him and that he should decide how much it was worth. Her response implied he told her he'd make her pay."

John's startled gaze met his. "You think our killer believes Miss Walker is trying to blackmail him?"

He nodded. "I believe she's now his next target."

His friend shook his head. "But you still can't know for sure that the caller is the killer."

"Would you prefer I turn the car around?"

John shifted in his seat. "No. Not if there's a chance you're correct."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please. I've made far more complex deductions on less information."

"Yes, well, do try not to be a complete arse when we see her. Your last conversation didn't exactly endear her to you."

He sighed. "You forget, John."

"What?"

Sherlock stepped on the gas pedal. "I don't care."

Sherlock turned on the wipers as rain began to patter against the windscreen. They were nearly there.

"If our killer is after her, what do you think he'll do?" John asked.

"Judging by his past behavior, it would appear he doesn't intend to kill anyone, but simply acquire his information. However, it's difficult to determine how he will respond to Miss Walker's implied threat. I need more data."

He made a right onto Station Way then pulled into a dark alley. The Bentley was parked three cars down.

John undid his seatbelt and handed Sherlock his phone. "You didn't need me to navigate, did you?"

"No, I memorized the directions off my mobile before handing it to you."

Shaking his head, John gestured to the boot. "Unlock it for me, will you?"

John unzipped his bag. The boot's interior light glinted off the dark metal of his British Army Sig Sauer L106A1. John slid the gun into the inside lower pocket of his shooting jacket, then grinned at him. "Could be dangerous."

Sherlock smiled. "We can hope."

The back door to the club was locked, so they headed around to the front. Lamps shaped like fiery swords framed the entrance to Eden. Two burly bouncers wore tailored suits the color of burnished gold. One man opened the door for a group of flashily dressed women and the white embroidered wings on the back of his jacket glinted in the flickering light.

Sherlock caught John's shoulder. "Give me a moment," he murmured. "I need to figure out a way to get us inside. Pretend to make a phone call so we don't look like we're loitering."

John pulled out his mobile, pushed a few buttons, and began speaking into his phone about work. He paced up and down the sidewalk. Sherlock took the opportunity to study the two bouncers.

One was short and muscled, his suit jacket taut across the shoulders. The other guard was tall and lean. His hair was buzzed short and he stood with his feet at shoulder's width apart, posture stiff. He took a long drag of his cigarette, then exhaled, blowing the smoke into the other bouncer's face. The short man cursed and shoved his partner, but the smoker just threw back his head and laughed. The light from one of the lamps shone on the taller man's neck, revealing a tattoo of a knight fighting a dragon. Well, this was going to be interesting.

Sherlock motioned to John to wrap it up and his friend ended the false call.

"So?" John asked.

"The smoker is a military man. It's up to you to get us in."

John shot a glance at the bouncer, then smiled. "I've got this."

Suddenly, his friend faded away, and Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers surfaced. John's posture straightened and his chin lifted. His brown eyes, usually full of empathy and humor, hardened. An aura of authority found only in men of military rank radiated from him. "It would be best if you avoid speaking."

Sherlock nodded.

The two guards eyed them as they approached and Sherlock took care to remain a step behind his friend. The short bouncer folded his arms in a poor attempt to appear more intimidating, clearly uncomfortable with Sherlock's four-inch advantage.

The smoker stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one. The flame of his lighter emphasized numerous raised scars on his knuckles. Sherlock wouldn't get anywhere by showing them the police badge he'd nicked from Lestrade and there wasn't enough money to buy their way inside. It was up to John.

His friend nodded sharply at the lean bouncer. "Good evening, Tommy. How goes the battle?"

The cigarette fell out of the guard's gaping mouth onto the concrete. "Lieutenant Marcus Doyle, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," he said, saluting John.

"Captain John Watson," he replied, saluting smartly in return. "At ease, soldier."

Lt. Doyle shifted his arms behind his back.

John cocked his head to the side as he examined the man in front of him. "I don't recall seeing you before, Lieutenant. When did you join?"

The man stared straight ahead. "Five years ago, sir."

Ah, so he wouldn't have had contact with John, as his friend had been medically retired before then.

Lt. Doyle cleared his throat. "I've heard of you, sir. You saved Sergeant Anthony Phillips. He's a good friend of mine."

John's eyebrows shot up. "How is Sergeant Phillips?"

The man grinned. "He's doing well, sir. Just had a little girl. He still talks about how you turned him into a human ice lolly."

Sherlock cast John a sideways a glance. He hadn't heard this particular story before.

John smiled at Doyle. "I promise it wasn't my usual treatment practice. I'm just relieved he's recovered well. This is an interesting gig you've got for yourself."

"Yes, sir. I'm on reserve now and this is the best way for me to pay the bills."

"I see. Well, my friend and I were in the area and we've heard some interesting stories about this place. Is there really a man dressed like a serpent?"

The soldier nodded. "His name is Tony, not Lucifer, just so you know." He gestured at the door. "Would you like to go inside to see for yourself, sir?"

John waved a hand at his clothing. "I'm afraid I'm rather under-dressed for this type of club, Lieutenant."

Doyle grinned. "Forgive me, sir, but you're a Captain. As far as I'm concerned, you can dress as you damn well please."

The guard held the door open for them and Sherlock wasn't sure whether his friend's expression of surprised delight was feigned or not.

"Enjoy your evening, sir."

John gave the guard a final salute and headed inside the club. Sherlock followed.

Raucous music, flashing lights, and the sharp, musky sweat of undulating bodies were thankfully missing from this particular venue. Sherlock could count on one hand the number of times he'd been to a nightclub and those had largely been in the seedier parts of London.

This wasn't one of those places.

Sparkling gold lights crept like vines up the sides of the walls. The concrete floor was painted an earthy brown to match the plush lounge seating. Men and women crowded around a green marble bar, drinking out of apple-red glasses. A glowing door on the far side of the room opened and a techno beat momentarily filled the air.

The place was packed.

"We should split up," he said. "You take this room and I'll take the other. We'll meet back here once we find Miss Walker."

John frowned. "What do we do when we find her?"

"Whatever it takes to get her out of here." He left John to his search and swept through the glowing double doors.

Asher hadn't been joking about the apple tree. It burst out of the ground in one corner of the room, its leafy green branches covered with twinkling fairy lights and laden with lush looking apples. A tipsy woman plucked a low hanging fruit and bit into it. Juice dribbled down her chin.

Curved private booths with candle-lit tables encircled the sunken dance floor. Despite the thumping bass of the speakers, those on the outskirts of the floor were able to converse easily. Whoever was in charge of the acoustics was a genius. Sherlock would know. It took one to know one.

His height gave him an advantage as he gazed down on the crowd of dancers. Unable to spot Miss Walker, he decided to check the private booths. Before he even made it halfway across the room, he declined three requests to dance, two offers of drink, and the amorous attentions of a particularly persistent woman with surgically enhanced breasts.

Then he saw her. She was leaning back against a glittering support beam watching the dancers. Odd to see her not wearing her usual business suit. Instead, she wore trainers, loose fitting black pants, and a fitted zippered hoodie. Her shoulder length hair was pulled back in a ponytail. It looked like she was ready to go for a run, rather than attend a fancy night club. He slipped around a gaggle of giggling young women and approached her.

"Sorry to interrupt, but it's time to leave."

A lazy smile spread across her face. "Oh, hello there."

He frowned. "We need to go."

She raised her arms above her head and stretched, back arching. "Would you like to dance?"

That caught his attention. While he wasn't as capable as John at understanding the irrational minds of women, even Sherlock knew it was beyond odd for Miss Walker to go from wanting to throttle him to asking him to dance in a few hours time. He caught her chin and lifted her face toward the light.

Her pupils were tiny as pins, the green irises glassy.

"What did you take?" he asked, tightening his grip. She shoved him away, her temper surfacing despite the effects of whatever drug she'd been given.

A man dressed in a snake-skin suit slunk his way over. "Is this man bothering you?"

Miss Walker's lower lip pouted. "He won't dance with me."

The slick-haired man stared at Sherlock in disbelief, his iridescent yellow contacts gleaming. He slipped a hand around her waist. "I'll dance with you, love."

Irritation flared. "That won't be necessary, Tony," he said, offering Miss Walker his arm. To his great surprise, she took it, stumbling forward to stand beside him.

The serpentine man sighed. "What a shame. Your soul would have been so sweet, my dear."

Miss Walker shook her head, almost losing her balance. "I've already sold my soul to the devil."

Pointed incisors caught the light as Tony grinned at him. "Lucky man."

A woman in a slinky red dress dragged Tony onto the dance floor. Miss Walker moved to follow, but Sherlock caught her arm. "We're getting out of here."

She stamped her foot like a three-year old having a temper tantrum. "No. Not until after I dance."

Sherlock scowled down at her. "Don't be ridiculous. You can hardly stand."

She glowered back at him. "Then I'm staying."

He gritted his teeth. He'd prefer to throw her over his shoulder and carry her out, but she'd likely scream like a banshee and draw unwanted attention. A glowing green exit sign on the other side of the dance floor caught his eye. It was the door he and John had tried to open from the alleyway. He calculated the distance across the floor. He'd likely have more difficulty leading her back the way they'd come in. Once they got outside, he could call John on his mobile.

"Fine." Sherlock tugged her towards the crowd of dancers. She followed behind, practically tripping down the stairs.

Some rubbish song about kissing an extraterrestrial blared through the speakers, the heavy hitting bass reverberating inside his chest. The sight of drunken men and women writhing together made his lip curl.

So, Miss Walker wanted to dance, did she? Oh he'd dance with her all right, but she'd do it his way or not at all.

Assessing the beat of the music, he considered salsa, but dismissed the idea as he'd need more control over her loose frame. Folding his left hand around her right, he pulled her close, placing his other hand firmly on her lower back. Her left hand came to rest on his shoulder, fingers gripping the rough wool of his coat. He exhaled and settled into his center of balance.

It was time to tango.

Normally, their stances would be offset to avoid the bumping of knees and toes, however in her drugged state, it was unlikely Miss Walker could perform even a basic tango step on her own. He expected her to resist as he nudged his left leg against her right, but she surprised him for the second time that evening by allowing him to take the lead. Tapping the side of her foot with his own, he closed her stance, then repeated the pattern.

Guiding her back towards the exit, he pivoted, shielding her from a lumbering fool. She stumbled and leaned heavily against him, her hair brushing against his face. The sweet scent of lavender and vanilla teased his nose. It took him a few seconds to realize it was her perfume.

A number of dancers stopped to watch their progress, while a few even shoved others out of the way to give them more space. The door was nearly within reach, but Sherlock couldn't resist the opportunity to show off. Lifting her right knee with his left hand, he brought her lower leg around the back of his thigh. Catching her hand back in his, he spun them once, twice, then thrice, quickly traveling the remaining distance to the door. He dipped her deeply and her back arched in a near perfect bow. He swept her back in close and she laughed breathlessly up at him in open delight. He found himself reluctantly amused and an answering smile tugged at his mouth. The sound of applause briefly overwhelmed the music as the song faded into a new one. Sherlock nodded to the appreciative crowd, then pulled Miss Walker out the door and into the alley.

He released her and she leaned up against the Bentley, still laughing. He fished his mobile out of his pocket and dialed John's number. Instead of staying put, she swayed into the middle of the road, giggling as she spun in a poor excuse for a circle. John didn't answer immediately, so he redialed.

The roar of an engine cut through the air. A sedan with unlit headlights shot forward, headed straight for Miss Walker.

Sherlock dropped his phone and lunged.


	8. Chapter 8

John stood on the upper edge of the dance floor gaping like a fool.

Sherlock Holmes had just bloody tangoed Miss Walker out the door. His mobile vibrated in his pocket, but he was too gobsmacked to pay it any mind.

A curvaceous woman in a low-cut purple dress sashayed over to him. "You look like you could use one of these, love." She offered him a shiny, red fruit.

He could use a nibble for the road, but he doubted it was an average apple. It was likely injected with alcohol, and he needed all his wits about him, addled as they were. "You're very kind, but I have to leave. Enjoy your evening."

He headed out Eden's back door and into chaos.

A car raced down the alleyway straight for Miss Walker. Sherlock darted forward, faster than John had ever seen him sprint, and tackled her out of the way. The sedan's tires squealed as it took the corner at a dangerous speed. It disappeared into the night.

John's heart pounded, and he ran towards the bodies crumpled beside the dumpster. "Sherlock! Are you all right?"

His friend rolled off Miss Walker Walker and crouched beside her still form. "I'm not the one you need to be asking." He removed a torch from his inside coat pocket and shone the light on her pale face.

John placed two fingers against the side of her neck, automatically locating her carotid artery. He exhaled when he detected a pulse. Glancing at his watch, he determined the rate to be a slow fifty beats per minute. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, but steady breaths.

John lightly slapped her dirty cheek. "Miss Walker. Can you hear me?"

Her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked drowsily up at him. "I need to sleep."

Her heavy lids fell shut. Not only had her words been slurred, but her pupils had appeared overly constricted in the torchlight.

John's mouth fell open. "She's been drugged."

"While I agree she's under the influence, we don't have all the evidence." Sherlock searched her pockets. "The correct question is, what drug and why."

Sherlock produced her mobile, the keys to the Bentley, and a coin purse. Opening the small zippered bag, he dumped the contents onto Miss Walker's stomach. There wasn't much, just her identification, a few bank cards, and an empty money clip.

"You're not suggesting she drove all the way here to do drugs, are you?"

"Not everyone's a boy-scout like you."

He shook his head. While his life experience had shown him the depravity of man, John still tried to see the best in people. A person was innocent until proven guilty. Sherlock had the exact opposite attitude. Everyone was guilty of something. His trust had to be earned. It was never freely given.

John tilted Miss Walker's head to the side and ran a hand across the back of her skull. He was unsurprised to find his fingers stained with blood. Sherlock had slammed into the woman at full speed, and the road was hardly a forgiving surface. "Did you really have to use her to break your fall?"

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. "I was too busy saving her life. Can we move her?"

"Yes. I believe the drug is the reason for her lethargic state rather than the bump on her head, but we'd best be careful. There are no signs of concussion or broken bones, though I suggest we take her to the nearest hospital to be safe."

Sherlock slid his arms beneath Miss Walker and lifted her. John was reminded of the time his friend had straightened out their fireplace poker after a man had twisted it in a fit of rage. While a number of criminals could attest to the strength hidden within the detective's slender frame, it struck John as odd to see Sherlock carrying an injured woman in his arms. Sherlock didn't exactly fit the hero archetype.

Her head lolled backwards at an uncomfortable angle, and he winced.

"Would you mind opening the door?" Sherlock asked, walking towards the Bentley. "I'd prefer to get her inside before she bleeds on my coat."

John scooped Miss Walker's belongings off the ground and opened the back door. Sherlock laid her on the leather bench seat, naturally leaving him to get her comfortable. John removed his gun and pillowed his coat beneath her head. He then secured a seat-belt across her. One of her arms dangled off the seat, and a flash of gold glinted on her wrist in the overhead light. Pulling up her cuff, he discovered a cheap, gold bracelet shaped like a serpent. It coiled around her wrist.

"Sherlock, you'll want to take a look at this."

Giving his mobile a final polish, his friend leaned around the driver's seat, gaze immediately zeroing in on the piece of jewelry. He slipped it off her wrist and lifted it towards the light. The gold scales glittered.

In one deft movement, Sherlock twisted off the serpent's head and let it fall to the floor. He peered into the hollow bracelet, and an unreadable expression flickered across his face, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

"What's inside?" John asked.

"Forbidden fruit," Sherlock replied, his tone grim. He tilted the bracelet, and round white tablets cascaded into his open palm.

John picked one up and examined it. His stomach lurched. "It's morphine. One hundred milligrams."

The detective said nothing, the muscles in his jaw clenched tight. Sherlock poured the pills back into their container. He popped the serpent's head back into place, then shoved the bracelet into John's hand. "Here."

John slipped it into the front pocket of his trousers. He intended to destroy it the first chance he got, not only to prevent Miss Walker from getting to it, but to protect his friend as well. Sherlock had been clean for years, but having temptation in such close proximity could very well lead the man down a destructive path. It would be a cold day in hell before John allowed that to happen.

Sherlock's mobile pinged. "Someone's just accessed the GPS for the Bentley."

"What? How is that possible?"

The detective smiled. "Our killer is clever." He removed a black box from beneath the Bentley's dashboard. "But not as clever as I am."

Sherlock exited the car and waved down a passing taxi. Opening the back door to the cab, he leaned in, conversing with the driver. A moment later, the taxi drove off and Sherlock returned, a wide grin on his face. "By the time he figures out he isn't tracking this car, we'll be long gone."

The detective tossed the Jaguar's keys to him. "You'll want to transfer our bags into the Bentley."

"Can't we take both cars?"

"We can, as long as you don't mind Miss Walker choking on her own vomit during the drive."

John stomped over to the car and retrieved their luggage. "She's not going to vomit. There wasn't any hint of alcohol on her breath." Regardless, he couldn't bring himself to take the risk. Of course, it would fall to him. Sherlock was no nursemaid. The last time John had gotten sick, the detective had quarantined the flat and abandoned him to sleep at the lab. God forbid the sniffles come between Sherlock and his work.

Giving up on ever driving again, John settled onto the bench seat next to Miss Walker and checked her vitals. Her heart rate had improved. He rested his hand lightly upon her clavicle to monitor her breathing.

Sherlock turned off the main road and headed east. The nearest hospital was in the opposite direction. "Hang on. Where are we going?"

"We're going to my family's country estate. It's not far from here."

"This woman needs medical care, not a visit to the countryside!"

Sherlock's smirk reflected back at him in the rear-view mirror. "I happen to know a doctor. He's very good."

John shook his head. "No. Absolutely not. She's not my patient, Sherlock."

"She is now."

"Give me one good reason."

"I can give you three. In case you haven't noticed, someone is trying to kill her. Two, she's under the influence of morphine, making her even more vulnerable to attack. Three, I doubt her chances of survival will be improved if she's shoved off at hospital. Our killer just accessed our GPS, it would be child's play for him to obtain hospital records and thus acquire her location."

John sighed and stared out the window as the silhouettes of the city buildings gave way to dark rolling hills. They drove in silence for a while. The Bentley took the curves of the road with ease.

"Maybe our killer planted the drugs on her," John said.

"That's one possibility. He entered the club, somehow drugged Miss Walker without getting her to drink anything, slipped the bracelet on her wrist, then waited to run her over outside. Evidence would show she was under the influence, and the driver could claim she walked out in front of his vehicle, sparing him any blame. While I applaud your vivid imagination, John, I believe Occam's Razor applies in this particular situation."

"What do you mean?"

"I prefer theories which make the fewest unwarranted assumptions about available data. Also, while you were examining Miss Walker, I noticed the money clip in her bag was bent. She had an overly thick roll of notes at one point. Until I know more, I'm going to operate under the assumption she willingly purchased and took the drugs."

John had experienced his share of trauma, pain, and loneliness, but he had a difficult time understanding why anyone would risk becoming dependent on a substance, no matter the euphoric result. As a doctor, he was all too aware of the consequences drugs had on the body and the brain. Then again, Sherlock was brilliant and still had fallen victim to addiction.

"Why do you think she's abusing?" he asked at last.

The detective's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "I intend to find out. In fact, I have a number of questions for Miss Walker once she awakens. Do you know how long she'll be?"

John shook his head. "It's difficult to determine without knowing the exact dosage. Judging by her lack of responsiveness, I'd say she'll sleep through the night. By the way, why did you tango her out the back door?"

The car jerked as Sherlock took too sharp a turn. "She refused to leave unless I danced with her. It was the most efficient route."

John grinned. Right, because dancing was so much faster. Maybe Sherlock was going to pirouette down the streets after criminals now. "I didn't know you could dance."

"Mother had both Mycroft and I learn, though I haven't danced in years."

"You looked like you were enjoying yourself."

"It was only a means to an end."

"Whatever you say, twinkle toes."

Sherlock stepped on the gas, accelerating way beyond the posted speed limit. For once, John didn't care. It was worth it. He only wished he'd managed to snap a photo or video footage of Sherlock tangoing. Lestrade would have laughed his arse off.

They drove up a dark road, lit only by the stars and a silvery moon peeking through the clouds. A two-story manor loomed ahead.

Sherlock pulled up to the house, and the headlights shone on red brick walls and blue-shuttered windows. "Welcome to _Brackenwood_."


	9. Chapter 9

John pressed his face against the window and stared at the large house. He sometimes forgot Sherlock came from a wealthy family. The detective refused to touch his inheritance, though he'd never said why. Perhaps he wanted to succeed on his own or refused the money out of spite. God knew Sherlock and his brother didn't exactly have the best relationship.

"It's big," he said.

"Is it? My father had it built for my mother."

"That's nice." Maybe Sherlock's family wasn't as dysfunctional as he'd thought.

"He chose this area due to the dense overgrowth of poisonous ferns."

"Right." Never mind then. "We should get Miss Walker inside."

Sherlock turned the engine off and looked over his shoulder at him. "I'll need to input the security code first. We don't want to alarm Mycroft, although it's a good chance he already knows we're here."

Leaving the slumbering woman in the car, John followed Sherlock to the front door. Built into the metal handle was a keypad with a blinking red light.

Sherlock stared at it for a long moment.

"Don't you know the code?" John asked.

"No. _Brackenwood_ has become Mycroft's little vacation home. He'd choke on his cake if he knew we were here. I just need a minute to figure it out."

The tune 'God Save the Queen' filled the air.

Great. They were buggered. John half expected lasers or gouts of flame to shoot from the front door.

Sherlock answered his mobile. "Hello, brother dear. Yes, John and I thought it would be fun to take a trip to the countryside. Get some fresh air, enjoy the scenery, perhaps investigate a mysterious death, the usual. Yes, there's a woman passed out in the car."

John's mouth fell open. His gaze darted from the doorway to the dark interior of the parked Bentley. How on earth? He looked up at the side of the building, but noticed nothing out of the ordinary. If there were high-tech cameras anywhere, they were well-hidden.

Sherlock shook his head, eyes rolling upwards. "Yes, she's involved with the case, but I assure you she won't be any trouble. No, we won't ruin your antique furniture or the carpet. Now, may I have the code?"

There was a pause, then Sherlock snickered. "How very patriotic of you." He hung up.

Sherlock entered '1837' and the light switched from red to green. A clunking sound indicated a heavy deadbolt had slid free. The door swung open and lights came on revealing an entryway with soft, white carpet.

"What's so funny about 1837?" John asked.

"It's the year Queen Victoria ascended the throne and moved into Buckingham Palace."

John chuckled. "He really is the Queen, isn't he?"

"Perhaps I'll send him a glittery pink tiara for Christmas."

"And I'll get him 'Pretty Pretty Princess'. Harriet used to love playing that game when we were kids."

Sherlock grinned. "Excellent. We'll just need to figure out a way to sneak the package past his government minions."

Instead of going around to the back of the car, Sherlock popped open the bonnet of the Bentley. He handed John his lit torch. "Hold this."

John complied, pointing the beam of light at the engine. Sherlock disconnected the battery from the vehicle and lifted it out. He hid it beneath the back seat of the car.

"What are you doing that for?"

"Better safe than sorry."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Just consider it an added precaution."

An added precaution for what? Judging by the flickering lights in the distance, the nearest neighbor was over a mile away. John couldn't imagine anyone would try to steal the car.

Sherlock opened the Bentley's door then lifted Miss Walker into his arms. John hurried forward and grabbed his jacket before it could slide off the seat and onto the wet ground. He retrieved their luggage and followed Sherlock into the house.

The lights automatically flickered on as they walked inside. Sherlock halted inside a quintessential English sitting room, complete with yellow flocked wallpaper, an oriental rug, and an oak engraved fireplace. The mantel was cluttered with china figurines, mainly Staffordshire dogs. A glass topped Chinese chest served as a coffee table.

Sherlock set Ms. Walker onto a cushy white sofa. Of course, it had to be white. Sacrificing his jacket once again, John draped it over a pillow and placed it beneath Miss Walker's head.

He grimaced at the grimy state of his hands. "Where's the loo?"

Sherlock nodded towards the hallway. "Go back the way we came, head past the staircase, and turn right."

John followed the instructions and quickly found it. He scrubbed his blood-stained hands beneath the piping hot water, then toweled them dry. A row of black and white photos of solemn looking government officials decorated the wall above the toilet. Creepy. Maybe it helped Mycroft wee or something. John didn't want to think about it. Popping open the bracelet, he dumped the pills into the toilet and flushed the drugs, then tossed the cheap piece of jewelry into the bin.

Back in the sitting room, John found Sherlock pacing in front of the fireplace, mobile against his ear.

"Yes, everything is fine, Giles. You'll want to send someone to Eden to pick up the Jag. I'm sure Asher would be more than happy to help."

John retrieved his medical kit and set it on the Chinese chest. He pulled one of the heavy white chairs over to the sofa, careful not to catch the legs of the antique on the expensive area rug. It was so much easier at 221B where everything was cozy and worn. Sherlock spilled sticky concoctions onto the floor and furniture all the time. John could put his feet up on the coffee table and not worry about dinging it up. It was home. This place was too clean, too cold, too remote. Rather like Mycroft.

"I'll keep you updated on the progress we make with the case." Sherlock ended the call.

He frowned. "Did you tell him she was drugged?"

Sherlock shook his head. "The fewer people who know, the better. Besides, the old man would only worry needlessly."

His eyebrows rose. "Kind of you to consider his feelings."

Sherlock cast a sideways glance at him. "I'd prefer not to be inundated by incessant calls from him regarding her welfare."

"Right. That would be terribly inconvenient," John said, his tone dry.

"So glad we agree."

John smiled.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What?"

His smile widened. "I believe it's high time you made yourself useful. Since you've been so kind as to give me a patient, you're going to be my assistant."

"No."

"Oh yes. If you refuse, I'm going to call Mrs. Hudson right now and tell her you've been using the vacant flat below us for experiments. I bet she'll charge you extra rent and bin the whole disgusting mess you've left down there. Did you really think I wouldn't find out?"

Surprise flickered across the detective's face, quickly replaced by indignation. "I've been working on that for months. It's important to science, John. And it could prove a man's innocence."

"Oh, really?" He couldn't fathom how bisected pig intestines held any hope for refuting criminal charges.

"You'd be ruining a man's chance at freedom."

"Well, I suggest you hop to then."

Sherlock glowered.

"You're more than welcome to test me on this." He pulled out his mobile and raised his eyebrows.

For a moment, John thought Sherlock was going to try and swipe the phone from him. Instead, his friend's face contorted into the sourest expression he'd ever seen. "Fine. I'll be your bloody assistant."

John slid his phone back into his pocket. "So glad we agree. Please get me a bowl of warm soapy water, two wash cloths, and a small plate."

Sherlock stomped down the hall like a four-year old having a hissy fit.

John chuckled. It was a rare moment indeed when he got the best of Sherlock Holmes. While his friend's antics were entertaining, baffling, and oftentimes appalling, it was healthy for the detective to realize he couldn't always have his way. John had a slow fuse and the patience of saint, but he wasn't a walking doormat.

Sherlock returned with the requested items and set them on the coffee table. "Is there anything else you require?"

"Yes, thank you for asking. I need more light so I can give my patient a thorough examination."

Sherlock left the room and came back with a standing lamp. "Will there be anything else?"

John rolled his eyes. "Oh just sit down and busy yourself with your mobile."

Instead, Sherlock sat down on the coffee table and leaned forward to watch him work. If his friend thought he'd be perturbed by an audience, he'd be sorely disappointed. Popping open his medical kit, John slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves. After easing Miss Walker's head to the side, he parted the hair surrounding the wound.

"It's fortunate she had her hair styled in this fashion," Sherlock said.

"Why do you say that?"

"Her pony tail absorbed the initial impact. She only acquired damage when her head recoiled on its second bounce against the road."

"Yes, well, the style is no longer helping." The way it was pulled back, combined with the coagulated blood and dirt made it difficult for him to get a clear view of the injury. Her thick red hair would no doubt fall all over the place if he were to remove the band holding it, but there was no other option. He removed the tie, and her vibrant hair spilled over her face and across his hands.

Another pair of blue-gloved hands came into view. Sherlock brushed her hair out of the way and held the tendrils firmly in place. John glanced at his friend, but Sherlock's face was impassive.

John dipped one of the wash cloths into the bowl of water and wrung it out. He dabbed it gently against the wound, and the cloth came away scarlet. He cleansed the site a second time and finally got a clear view of the injury. It was located behind her left ear. The angry scrape was embedded with tiny gravel and unnamable debris. An alleyway wasn't the best place to suffer a laceration. He hoped she was up to date on her immunizations. Using a pair of tweezers, John dug out the small pieces caught in her skin and dropped them onto the waiting plate. The tiny bits pinged as they landed on the fine china.

Sherlock gazed down at the dish, eyes alight with interest. "Let's see. We've got a shard of glass from a beer bottle. Guinness, judging by the shade. A scrap from a lottery card." His tone brightened. "Oh look, tobacco ash."

Sherlock poked at the tiny remnant. "_Lambert and Butler_. Unfiltered. Average nicotine, not harsh on the throat, moderate burn. It holds position one hundred and forty-three in my tobacco ash study."

"Wonderful. Now can you please go back to holding her hair out of the way? I need to disinfect the wound."

Sherlock resumed his earlier position, allowing John to apply antibacterial ointment. It actually wasn't as bad as he'd expected. It had been difficult to tell in the dark alleyway as head wounds tended to bleed profusely.

Picking up another cloth, John dampened it and wiped away the dirt on the side of her face. He could tell Miss Walker wasn't enjoying restorative sleep as her eyes didn't indicate a REM cycle. A frown pinched her face and John couldn't help himself from massaging the furrow between her eyes. Water dripped from the cloth and landed below her lashes. He wiped it away and frowned. The cloth was now stained a pale fleshy tone.

Sherlock examined her skin. "She's wearing heavy make-up. Theater grade, judging by the thickness. Skillfully applied."

John ran the cloth over her face, cleansing it of all product. The result was disturbing. Dark circles, like purple bruises beneath her eyes. Lines of strain etched around her mouth. Her cheekbones were sharp, skin stretched taut across her face. She looked ill.

"She hasn't been sleeping or eating," Sherlock said.

John sighed. "Morphine slows down the digestive tract and as a result can suppress appetite in some people."

Sherlock stripped off his gloves and tossed them onto the coffee table. Instead of leaving him to clean up the mess as John expected, the detective bent forward and rubbed the ends of Miss Walker's hair between his bare fingertips. He repeated the odd action a second time, this time allowing the silky locks to slide across the palm of his hand.

"Are you going to braid her hair now?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "She's got extensions, but it's only in this one area and nowhere else." He tugged on a portion of hair which led to the back of her skull.

John examined the hair on the back of her head, and sure enough, expertly tied extensions were attached to much shorter pieces of hair. "These must be expensive. I couldn't even tell the difference."

"You wouldn't. You don't care about hair."

"And you care a bit too much." His amusement died as he moved the synthetic hair out of the way. Puckered scar tissue the size of the palm of his hand marred the back of her skull. "She's already been injured."

"That doesn't look like a surgical scar."

"It isn't, though it's clear she received medical care. See how the area was shaved? Judging by the faint markings here, the sutures were removed only a few months ago. This can't be older than six months."

"My experience with head injuries is only limited to corpses. What do you think happened?"

John tore off his gloves and ran a hand through his short hair. "It's definitely a result of some kind of violent trauma. A car accident perhaps."

"What else?"

A rushing sound filled John's ears and an oppressive heat seared into his skin. Lifeless eyes stared back at him. His hands were slick with the blood of a soldier he couldn't save. He bit the inside of his mouth to bring himself back to the present and shoved the memory aside.

He met Sherlock's questioning gaze. "She could have been shot."


	10. Chapter 10

John's words still echoed in the back of Sherlock's mind the next morning. Had Miss Walker been shot?

He hoped so. It was far less boring than a car accident.

He and John had taken turns watching her through the night. She had tossed about in a fitful sleep, muttering incoherently, restless hands twitching. Though he'd had hours to study her, he'd only come away with more questions.

Miss Walker was a puzzle, one he intended to solve.

He exited his room, hair still damp from the shower, and entered the middle guest room. It was just after dawn, and pale, yellow sunshine filtered through the window, the light falling across her still form stretched out across the bed. She was twisted up in a green blanket, and one black-sock-covered foot hung off the side of the mattress. John sat next to a roll-top desk holding a steaming cup of tea and staring out at the pink and gold clouds.

"How is she?" Sherlock asked, taking a seat in the bedside chair.

John yawned. "She settled down about ten minutes ago. Perhaps she'll sleep better now."

"Doubtful."

"Why do you say that?"

His mouth quirked. "Because our guest is awake."

John shot him an incredulous look. "But she hasn't even stirred."

"Precisely. Don't tell me you didn't learn anything from watching her thrash about half the night."

"I wasn't in a learning frame of mind, Sherlock. I was bloody trying not to fall asleep."

He shook his head at the feeble excuse. "Come now, Miss Walker. I know you're faking, even if he doesn't."

The steady, rhythmic sound of her breathing hitched. Green eyes snapped open, peering at him through a tangle of dirty red hair. "What am I doing here?"

"Besides not sleeping and generally making a nuisance of yourself? Not much. Tell me what you recall from last night."

She eased into a sitting position, leaning back against the antique brass bed frame. A frown settled on her face. "Everything is a bit fuzzy."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at John. His friend nodded. So, it wasn't out of the question for her memory to have been affected following consumption of the morphine. However, the events leading up to her taking the drug shouldn't have been impacted. "Surely you recall driving to Eden."

"I do." She tucked the blanket more comfortably around herself.

His mouth curved. She wasn't going to make it easy for him. Excellent. He would have been disappointed otherwise. "What were you doing at the night club?"

"None of your business." She brushed her hair behind one ear and winced as her fingers came into contact with the bandage.

John cleared his throat. "How's your head?"

Her brows drew together. "Sore. What happened?"

"I saved your life," Sherlock said. "Someone attempted to run you over in the alley behind the club. I shoved you out of the way. You're welcome."

Her gaze darted to John, who nodded in confirmation. Interesting. She trusted the doctor, but not him. Smart.

Her hand worried up and down her right wrist. "Where's my bracelet?"

John glanced sideways at him, his lips pursed.

Sherlock frowned. The look on John's face was reminiscent of the time he'd come home and found his sock index disturbed. John had felt the need to check his things for drug paraphernalia. Sherlock hadn't been using, but if he had, he wouldn't have hidden it there. But why was John giving him that look now? Self-righteousness, but with a dash of guilt.

It hit him then. and he bit back a groan. He'd told John to take the drug-filled piece of jewelry, not destroy it.

He stood. "It's downstairs. We'll be back with your belongings and a cup of tea for you, in just a moment."

She stared at him warily, but relaxed when John sent her a reassuring smile.

"One sugar, right?" John asked.

"Yes, please."

John nodded and they headed out the door and downstairs.

His friend rounded on him in the hallway. "What exactly is the plan, Sherlock?"

He scowled, shoving past John and into the kitchen. "I had a perfectly decent plan until you botched it. You got rid of the drugs, didn't you?"

John stomped after him. "Of course I did. I flushed them and binned the bracelet in the bathroom. What did you expect me to do?"

Sherlock jerked the cupboard door open. "I told you to hold onto it, not throw it away. Must I spell out everything for you?"

"Why on earth would we need to keep the morphine?"

Sherlock threw a hand up, nearly dropping the mug he'd retrieved. "To prevent her from going through withdrawals, of course."

John gaped at him. "You planned on me administering illegal drugs to her?"

He shrugged as he turned on the electric kettle. "I don't see the problem."

"I made an oath as a doctor to do no harm. Supporting an addict is harmful. I could have my license revoked and get sent to prison."

He rolled his eyes. "Who would report you? Me? Miss Walker? If you're going to protest, at least have a valid argument."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't believe you thought I would agree. How could you even consider it?"

Sherlock poured the boiling water into the cup and dropped in a teabag. "My intention was to ensure our interactions with Miss Walker were less problematic, not more so. It's already going to be difficult enough to keep her here while at the same time track down our killer."

The pitch of John's voice rose. "You can't drug someone out of convenience."

"I doubt she would have minded." He added a sugar cube to the brewing tea.

John folded his arms and glared. "I don't care. I stand by my decision."

He pasted a smile on his face. "You'll have to, as we have no other option available. Judging by Miss Walker's immediate concern regarding her bracelet, you'll have a very ill patient on your hands quite shortly, Doctor Watson."

Anger and indignation shifted to concern on John's face. The man clearly hadn't considered the consequences of destroying the pills. "I'm not an addiction expert. I don't know the first thing about drug withdrawals."

Bile rose in the back of Sherlock's throat. "Fortunately, for you, I've got first hand experience." He shoved the mug into John's hand. "Give this to Miss Walker. Be charming. I need her distracted while I come up with a plan. When I come into the room, follow my lead."

John looked like he wanted to protest, but took the tea, and left the kitchen.

Sherlock gripped the side of the marble counter top and resisted an irrational urge to take the car and leave. His muscles ached, though he knew the pain was phantom in nature. Addiction was a dark circle of hell, one he had no desire to revisit. The memories of his hideous ordeal remained fresh and raw as the day they'd occurred. He usually managed by shoving them into a deep recess of his Mind Palace, as deleting them was out of the question. Unfortunately, Miss Walker's withdrawals would likely be too much for his inner demons to resist.

Torment lay ahead for both of them.

He shoved himself away from the counter and into action, walking across to the other side of the manor. Opening the closet door, he slipped the spare brass key to the shed off its hook. He swept out the French doors at the back of the house. An icy wind cut through the warmth of his Belstaff coat. The frost-coated grass crunched beneath his shoes as he passed by the pond. The glittering surface of the water rippled, distorting the reflection of the low hanging willows. Swaying reeds riddled its muddy banks.

The stone-hewn shed sat half-covered in overgrown wisteria. He recalled climbing to the top as a child and the ancient gardener, Jasper, yelling for him to get down. Sherlock unlocked the door and it swung open silently. The current property manager kept it well-oiled. An automatic LED turned on, a vast improvement from the grimy light bulb which used to dangle from the ceiling. Sherlock wove through the various landscaping equipment, eyes flitting past the riding lawn mower, chain saw, and a pair of hedge trimmers. He opened a dusty wooden box in the corner, and a sigh escaped his lips. Two small coils of braided nylon rope lay in the bottom. He placed one in each pocket of his coat. After locking the shed, he headed back across the lawn and into the manor.

His pace slowed as he ascended the stairs. John wasn't going to like this new plan. In fact, his friend was going to hate it, but Sherlock couldn't think of any other alternative. Miss Walker wasn't about to remain here of her own free will, especially now that her morphine had been destroyed. Returning to _Aria_ wasn't an option either, as someone was intent on taking her life. Keeping her here was for the best, at least for the moment.

Sherlock slipped a hand into his pocket, fingers catching on the end of the rope. He frowned. The guest bedroom door was ajar. A groan sounded from within the room. Kicking the door open, he found John kneeling on the floor, clutching the back of his head. The teacup lay broken beside him, caramel liquid blossoming across the pale carpet.

A quick survey of the room confirmed what he already knew.

Miss Walker was gone.

"Are you all right?" Though judging by the stream of epithets coming from John's mouth, he was fine.

"Oh, I'm smashing. Thanks for asking." John drew his hand away and stared at the blood covering it. "She hit me."

"I gathered."

His friend groaned and slumped sideways against the wall. Brown eyes squinted up at him. "It's odd."

"What's odd? That you were beaten by a woman?"

"No, you git. When I came upstairs, she was standing by the window. She asked me to put the tea on the nightstand for her, then she apologized. Before I could turn around and ask what for, she walloped me."

Sherlock blinked. A polite assault. That was a first. "It was a brass candlestick, in case you were wondering." He waved a hand at the fireplace mantel. One of the matched pairs was missing.

It was rather like a live game of Cluedo: Miss Scarlet in the conservatory with the candlestick, although this time, Doctor Black wasn't murdered, merely injured. "If you're certain you're going to survive, I intend to retrieve our wayward guest."

John grunted.

Sherlock took that as an affirmative and descended the stairs two at a time. He'd noted Miss Walker's trainers half-hidden beneath the blanket on the floor. Not having shoes would slow her down. She'd also left her black hoodie draped over a chair, preventing her from covering her eye-catching hair. Mistake number two.

Exiting the front door, he approached the Bentley, alert for any kind of movement. The driver's side window was bashed in. Jagged bits of glass littered the leather seat and the grey cobblestones.

The candlestick was seeing quite a bit of use.

Keys dangled from the ignition. She'd found the extra set above the visor. Too bad for her the car battery had been removed. A splash of red caught his attention.

She'd cut herself.

Perhaps she'd had a tantrum when the car wouldn't start or accidentally brushed her bare arm across the sharp edge of glass.

Tiny droplets of blood and bits of glass led him down the side of the driveway towards the main road. What was she doing? She didn't have her mobile. She wouldn't be able to hitch a ride as this rural area didn't receive a lot of traffic.

His eyes narrowed. The blood trail ended in a muddy patch of ground. He crouched. There was an imprint of a heel and the tiniest impression of toes. He smiled. She'd removed her socks and wrapped them around her arm. Clever, except now her feet were completely bare.

Sherlock straightened and considered Miss Walker's options. She had three. One, she could have backtracked to the house in search of a place to hide. Two, she could have continued down the road in hopes of catching a driver's attention. Or three, she could have entered the woods with another plan in mind.

He positioned his feet parallel to the print and looked ahead. In the distance, a chimney poked above the tree tops. Option number three, then: Into the woods towards the nearest neighbor. Unfortunately for Miss Walker, Mr. Higgs and his wife went on holiday to Florida during the winter months. While they hired someone to maintain the property in their absence, he doubted anyone would be there at this time of day. It was also unlikely she could make it that far. It was almost three kilometers away. The pangs of withdrawal would likely be hounding her soon, not to mention her injured arm and head.

He entered the thick cove of trees, shoes immediately soaked by the water-logged grass from last night's rainfall. At least his steps were muffled. Straining his ears for any odd sound, all he heard was the chirping of swallows and the wind rustling through the leaves.

What would she do next? She was armed, desperate, and resolved to escape. It both pleased and perturbed him that he didn't know her well enough to predict her actions.

Something large burst out of the brush and hurtled towards him. Heart pounding, he dodged sideways and settled into a defensive stance. Frantic wings barely missed hitting him in the face. A pheasant. The bird shot over his shoulder and onto a low-hanging branch. Sherlock braced a hand against the peeling trunk of a nearby birch and let out a low chuckle.

Continuing through the woods, he noted sections of crushed grass and disturbed plants. He exited the trees, slowing as he approached the wood fence bordering Mr. Higgs' property. A herd of brown cattle milled about in the clearing, tearing at the grassy pasture with blunt teeth. One curious cow stuck its head over the fence and snorted at him. Its warm breath left trails of steam in the chilly air. Sherlock bent down and examined the muddy ground.

There.

A perfect set of footprints showed where she'd landed after hopping the fence. Something tugged at his hair and he jerked back, a few strands breaking away from his scalp. He wiped the slobber from the side of his head and scowled at the big, stupid animal.

Two black hairs disappeared into its mouth.

"You're disgusting."

Satisfied with its snack, the cow turned away and loudly broke wind. Sherlock vaulted over the fence and sped past the flatulent creature, however he wasn't quick enough to escape the noxious fumes. This was why he lived in the city. Corpses never smelled this bad. Darting around the herd, he cut across the clearing. The rusted weather vane squeaked as it spun above Mr. Higgs' mammoth-sized red timber barn. He'd best check there first. The main doors were open to allow the cattle to come inside if the weather turned.

His soggy shoes squelched as he walked across the stone flooring. The interior was lost in shadows, the only light from the weak sunshine coming through the entryway. A wall divided the barn into two sections. This half was devoted to stalls, all of which appeared to be empty. An icy gust of wind funneled inside, causing one of the metal stall doors to swing shut with a resounding clang. If Miss Walker was somewhere within the building, she'd be on high alert now.

He opened the door leading into the other half of the barn. This side was better lit, as a grid of skylights spread across the ceiling. A towering wall of hay bales cut across half of the cavernous room. Large burlap bags of feed and a lone gas can filled one corner. His nose tickled in response to the sweet fragrance of hay combined with the sharp stench of cow which still somehow managed to find its way inside.

Sherlock walked around the wall, only to be greeted by more bales. They filled the room in oddly shaped mountains, rather like a Tetris game gone berserk. He frowned. While he wasn't an expert on farming, the interior should have been arranged in a more orderly fashion. He couldn't imagine Mr. Higgs tolerating such a mess.

A splatter of neon green paint and above it a splash of yellow marked the hay bales beside him. He smiled. Someone, in fact, many someones, had partaken in a rousing game of paint ball. The caretaker likely held an annual tournament while the Higgs were gone on holiday.

He wove through the mounds of straw and past a pile of assorted paint ball guns and masks. There was even an empty box which looked like it had held various types of gas and paint grenades. He paused as he caught sight of an old Ford lorry. The faded blue vehicle was backed up against the hay, its front facing the sliding door to the barn. The driver's side door hung open.

He approached, but there was no one inside. A red metal toolbox, along with a hammer and screwdriver lay on the seat. The ignition switch had been pulled out of the dash and unplugged. Two wires protruded from the back of the plug, nestled next to a red wire with a yellow stripe.

His eyebrows rose. Miss Walker had hot-wired the lorry.

But why hadn't she left? A wry smile twisted his mouth.

The fuel gauge needle was on empty. Tough luck. Today was not Miss Walker's day.

Something rattled across the floor and lightly bounced off his foot. It looked like an unlabeled soda can.

Before he could kick it away, it exploded.


	11. Chapter 11

Purple plumes of smoke shot into Sherlock's face, blinding him.

She slammed into him seconds later, and he let her take him down, collapsing to the ground. His lack of resistance allowed him to take advantage of her forward momentum, and he threw her up and over him. She hit the stone floor and cried out. A loud metallic clanging told him she'd lost her grip on the brass candlestick. He jumped to his feet and headed in the direction of the sound. The smoke cleared just enough for him to see her disappear into the straw maze.

He gave chase, shoes slapping loudly against the ground. He noted his accelerated respiration, tensed muscles, narrowed vision, and most of all, the blood zinging through his veins. His mouth curved.

This was fun.

He sprinted around a tight corner. The pathway split. He hesitated. There wasn't any sign of her. He listened for any movement, but all he could hear was the heavy thrum of his heartbeat. A piece of straw fluttered down from above and tickled his cheek.

It was his only warning.

He wrenched forward, just in time to avoid being crushed by an avalanche of hay bales. Laughing breathlessly, he climbed up the makeshift stairway after her. He popped up just below her, and she gasped. A bare foot kicked out at him. He ducked, felt the whoosh of displaced air just above his head. She scrambled away from him, climbing further up the bales.

This particular bale structure was shaped like a half pyramid, the side they were ascending riddled with easy-to-climb bales. The other side was a sheer drop of forty feet. The problem was that the further they went up, the more precarious the structure became. It began to wobble.

Before she reached the peak, the uppermost bale toppled over the side and fell to the ground with a heavy thud. She hesitated at the top, staring at a rectangular pile which stood across a seven-foot gap. He was an arm's length away from grabbing her foot, when she shot a determined glance at him over her shoulder. He lunged, but he was too late.

She leapt forward and the bale beneath her feet gave way, altering her trajectory.

She wasn't going to make it.

Instead of a graceful arc, she flailed through the air. Her hands slapped against the top of the opposing structure, grasping for purchase in the straw.

Sherlock sprinted up the last few bales and jumped across the divide. The toes of his shoes caught the edge and he flung himself forward onto his knees. With a thunderous roar the entire half pyramid behind him collapsed, crumbling into the gap. The structure beneath him trembled. Dust and bits of straw filled the air.

Sherlock crawled over to the edge. She clung to the side with one arm, fingers clawed into the straw. She looked up at him, eyes wide. Her breath came in labored gasps.

He reached out. "Give me your hand."

"No."

He stared at her. Here she was, dangling precariously from a dangerous height and refusing his assistance. "You'll fall if you don't let me help you."

She glanced at the mound of hay bales below her, then glared back up at him. "I might make that."

He huffed out an incredulous breath. "It's possible, though you'll likely injure yourself. I don't imagine you'll be up for another round afterwards, do you?"

Sweat dripped into her eyes and down her face. Desperation had a way of fueling a human body beyond its breaking point. Had Miss Walker reached hers?

She swallowed, then lifted her bandaged arm from where it had hung limply at her side. He gripped her wrist and she winced. Likely sprained.

"When I grab your right arm, release the straw."

She nodded.

He caught hold of her other arm. His fingers fought for purchase upon her perspiration-slicked skin. There was far too much sweat from simple exertion or desperation.

Withdrawal. Nothing else caused the human body to overproduce fluids.

Not good.

His grip on her wrist broke free and she shrieked, now dangling by her right forearm.

Grasping her arm with both hands, he heaved her upwards. His shoulders burned with the effort. The straw had lacerated her skin, and blood ran down her arm to mingle with her sweat. It pooled between his hands. He dug his fingers into her flesh and lifted her another inch. Her skin slipped from his grasp. He lurched forwards and caught her hand.

Her eyes met his and in that moment, they both knew she was going to fall.

Sherlock did the only thing he could to increase her odds of survival. He wrenched her sideways, so she was above the highest pile of bales.

He let go.

She plummeted to the ground without a sound and hit the tallest bale feet first, knees slightly bent. Her arms flew up to cradle her head as she tumbled sideways, rolling down the jumble of bales and out of sight. The woman knew how to take a fall.

He hurried down the back side of the structure and around the corner. Climbing over piles of bales, he caught sight of her, sprawled on her side. She wasn't moving.

"Vivian!" He knelt beside her and touched the side of her grimy neck.

"I prefer Walker," she mumbled, eyes closed.

He exhaled sharply and sat back on heels. John would have been upset if he'd killed her.

Unfocused green eyes slowly opened. "I told you I could make it."

His mouth quirked. "Yes. Well done. Is anything broken?"

She sucked in a deep, halting breath. "My ribs are bruised, I think. Other than that, I'm fine."

He shook his head. Adrenaline had a way of numbing the body's pain receptors. John would need to examine her. Before she had a chance to recover from her stunned state, he removed the rope from his coat pocket and tied her feet together.

She craned her head to watch. "Do I really look like I'm in any shape to run away?"

"No, but I'm not taking any chances with you." He'd underestimated her already.

Sherlock pulled the other section of rope out of his pocket and she offered both wrists to him. He smiled. "Nice try. Behind your back."

She sat up with a groan and pivoted so he could reach her hands. She sucked in a sharp breath when he tightened the rope.

"John will take a look at your injuries when we get back."

"Even after I hit him?"

"He takes his oath seriously." Too seriously, in Sherlock's opinion.

Her shoulders slumped, eyes falling closed. "He really did destroy it, didn't he?"

"Yes." She must have overheard part of their conversation in the kitchen then.

"Why can't you just let me go? I haven't done anything."

Sherlock studied her. "Did you kill Rebecca Frost?"

Her mouth fell open. "What? I thought she died of pneumonia."

"Considering the inheritance, you have motive. I imagine supplying your fix can get expensive."

She scowled. "I never even heard of the woman until last week, and I make plenty of money at my current place of employment, thank you. Believe me, I wish I never responded to that bloody inheritance summons."

Sherlock considered her words and body language. She appeared to be telling the truth. Her recent shock and growing withdrawal symptoms would have made it even more difficult for her to lie to him.

"I believe you, but I still can't allow you to leave."

Her face twisted in irritation. "Why the hell not?"

Sherlock stood and attempted to dust off his straw-speckled coat. "It's complicated. Now isn't the time for discussion though. We need to head back."

He lifted her into his arms and she gasped, her shoulders no doubt strained by the awkward position.

This was the third time he'd carried her within a two day span. He hoped it wouldn't become a habit.

His mobile rang a number of times as he picked his way around the hay bales towards the lorry. Her body suddenly went rigid and he paused. "What is it?"

She buried her face in the front of his coat. He frowned down at the top of her head, but continued walking. Perhaps she was in more pain-

Something caught on his right foot, and the world exploded in color. Pink paint splattered all over them. He grit his teeth. Of course. A leftover paint grenade attached to a trip wire.

His coat. God. It was a mess.

Miss Walker looked up at him, smile faint. Paint dripped off his hair and onto her cheek. "It serves you right for kidnapping me."

"You-" His jaw clenched. He could just drop her in a dark corner of the barn and leave her there. No one would know. He could tell John she got away.

The tiny spark of humor in her eyes disappeared along with her smile, almost as if she could read his thoughts. A fresh line of sweat ran from her temple and down her neck. She shivered and her face spasmed.

More symptoms of withdrawal. He let out a breath. He couldn't leave her here, no matter how much she deserved it. Stupid John and his bloody moral compass. The man had infected him.

"You're going to pay for my dry cleaning," he said, glowering down at her.

"Put it on my tab," she murmured.

Sherlock eased her inside the lorry.

"It's empty," she said.

"Not for long." Sherlock backtracked his steps and fetched the petrol can half-hidden behind the feed bags. He emptied it into the tank, then slid open the barn door. Hopping into the driver's seat, he touched the exposed wires together and the engine cranked over. He connected the second wire into the plug and the lorry started. He smiled.

"Where did you find the petrol?"

He drove out of the barn and down the road. "Next to the feedbags."

She cursed and rested her head against the window.

He shot her a sideways glance. "You almost got away. That rarely happens with me." It was true. The last invigorating chase he'd experienced was the previous year, involving an enraged acrobat intent on murdering his fellow circus performers. It had taken both him and John to catch the high-flying maniac.

"'Almost' only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades." She sighed as they pulled up in front of the manor.

"True." He exited the lorry just as the front door to the house flew open.

"Why didn't you pick up your bloody phone?" John yelled. He halted, mouth agape.

Sherlock folded his arms, very much aware of his bedraggled state. "I was busy."

"What the hell happened?"

"Retrieving Miss Walker was more difficult than expected."

John followed him over to the passenger side door. "Is she alright?"

Sherlock hesitated. "She may have been injured in the retrieval process."

"Right." His friend shook his head. "Let's have a look then."

Slumped as she was against the door, John had to rush forward to prevent her from tumbling out of the seat and onto the ground. Shivers wracked her frame.

"Why do you have her tied up?" John asked.

"She threw a smoke grenade at me, tackled me, and nearly crushed me to death with hay bales."

John's eyebrows rose. "Well, I hardly think it's necessary at this point."

"Trust me. It's necessary."

John touched her shoulder. "Don't worry. You're going to be alright."

She jerked away from him and glared. "No, Doctor Watson. Thanks to you, I won't be."


	12. Chapter 12

John read through a British Medical Journal article on narcotic withdrawal syndrome and grimaced. There were six stages of withdrawal and they weren't pretty. In fact, they were downright horrible.

It had been two days since Sherlock had returned with Miss Walker. A sharp cry came from upstairs. His shoulders hunched. It wasn't his fault, not really. She was the addict. How could he have known she'd react this badly?

He nodded. He'd done the right thing. It would have been wrong to allow her to have the morphine, not to mention potentially dangerous for Sherlock. He sighed. Too bad the right thing made him feel like complete shite.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs, and Sherlock appeared in the doorway looking a bit worse for wear. Dark circles smudged the pale skin beneath his eyes. "It's your turn."

John looked at the clock. It was half past four. His turn wasn't supposed to start for another half hour.

Sherlock stalked past him and out the back door, slamming it behind him.

He frowned. Not only was it bloody cold out, but it was also pouring rain. Hardly the best time for a stroll. Sherlock hadn't even bothered to grab his coat. Of course, said coat was currently covered in pink paint. His friend would likely rather freeze to death than be caught wearing it in its current state. John put on his own jacket and followed after him.

Freezing rain stung his face, and he bit back a curse. It felt like icy needles driving into his skin. He turned the collar up on his black shooting jacket.

A dark silhouette stood beside the pond. Sherlock.

The green weeping willows, choppy grey water, and yellowing grass blurred together like paint running together across wet canvas.

"Lovely view," John said, as he came alongside his friend.

Sherlock stared off into the distance, unaware or uncaring of the downpour.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

John squinted at his friend's profile. Right. Judging by his clenched jawline and rigid posture, the man was just peachy.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock shot him a look he normally reserved for Anderson and people he found to be painfully stupid.

John's lips thinned. "You know, bottling everything up like you do isn't healthy."

"There's nothing for me to bottle up. Now kindly leave me in peace and go check on your patient."

He folded his arms. "Only if you come inside."

"No. I need some air."

"Sherlock, there's more water than air out here and there's perfectly decent, warm air inside the house." He caught his friend's arm. "Quit fooling around and come inside."

Sherlock jerked his arm away. "Leave. Me. Alone." Each word ground out between clenched teeth.

"But-"

"Please."

John rocked back on his heels. He could count on one hand the number of times Sherlock had said 'Please' and in none of them had the word been uttered in such a weary tone. It bothered him that his friend refused to confide in him, but he had to respect his choice. Although, considering it was Sherlock, perhaps the detective was unable to articulate his feelings, whatever they were.

"Fine. I'll just go inside and check on Miss Walker then." John walked back to the house, leaving Sherlock to battle his inner demons alone.

He hung up his coat and toweled his head dry, before heading upstairs. All too soon he reached Miss Walker's door.

He knew he wasn't going to like what he found inside, especially if Sherlock had been so affected. Despite the man's protests to the contrary, he knew his friend wasn't completely unfeeling. The detective was accustomed to dealing with cold corpses and a woman suffering through withdrawal was clearly outside his comfort zone. It was outside John's as well, but he had at least dealt with wounded soldiers when he'd been in the army. This particular case was a first in that he was partially responsible for his patient's current state.

He opened the door. The acrid stench of stale sweat wrinkled his nose. Miss Walker sat in a chair, wrists and feet bound by nylon rope to the antique's ornate wooden arms and legs. Her head hung low over a white basin perched on a side table to her right.

She retched. The painful sound caused his stomach muscles to involuntarily clench in sympathy. Her black shirt and trousers were soaked through, and her hair hung in limp tangles around her face.

A harsh sob tore out of her.

John had been wrong.

This was what complete shite felt like.

The door clicked shut, and she looked up. His heart twisted at the sight of her pale face, taut with pain. The only signs of color on her skin came from the angry red scratches across her arms and neck from her brawl in the barn.

He cleared his throat. "Can I get you anything?"

"Water," she rasped, nodding at the floor beside her chair. There was a damp circle on the carpet and an empty water glass on its side.

John headed into the bathroom and refilled it. He set it back on the side table and put a clean straw in it.

She sucked in a mouthful of water, nearly toppling the glass as she pulled greedily at the straw.

"Easy." He caught the glass before it could fall and slid the table closer, so it was now directly against the arm of the chair.

She sagged back into her seat. Beads of sweat dripped down her forehead and into her bloodshot eyes.

He winced. That had to burn. He went back into the bathroom, dampened a washcloth, and returned to her side. She flinched when the towel touched her skin, but remained still as he gently cleansed her face and neck. Gooseflesh broke out across her arms and she began to shiver.

John turned up the gas fireplace and took a seat in the chair across from her. "Would you like a blanket?"

She shook her head and took another sip of water. The simple task appeared to exhaust her, and her head drooped awkwardly over her right arm, limp hair falling forward to hide her face.

"Why are you doing this?"

The whispered question startled him. She'd barely spoken two words since they'd taken her from the lorry, and her episodes of raving delirium hadn't really counted as conversation. The medical journal had referred to it as 'yen sleep', a waking trance-like state often filled with hallucinations. John thought it more resembled night terrors.

"We're trying to protect you."

She responded with a weak laugh. Considering the situation from her perspective, he couldn't really blame her for her disbelief.

"Sherlock believes Rebecca Frost's murderer is now after you."

Her head slowly lifted to meet his gaze, green eyes lucid for the moment. "Why?"

John leaned forward. "Ms. Frost received multiple doses of anesthesia which ultimately led to her death. Sherlock thinks the killer was after something, either information or an important item. He believes the murderer is under the impression that you now possess it."

She stared at him. "Why me?"

"Because you've just inherited the Frost estate and Sherlock thought there was something odd about the phone call you took in the parlor at _Aria_."

Her eyes fell shut, and her brow furrowed. "The caller was asking about a missing book."

"Did he say what kind of book?"

"No, but the caller was a woman, not a man. When I refused to cooperate, she told me I would pay." Miss Walker's head slumped back against the chair and she grimaced. "And now here I am. Perhaps she was clairvoyant."

John stared. The caller was a woman? He wondered what Sherlock would make of this new tidbit of information. He'd wait until later to tell him though. Miss Walker wasn't in any kind of state for an interrogation, especially not one from Sherlock Holmes. He could spare her that at least and perhaps assuage some of his guilt over her condition.

"Do you recall anything else?" he asked.

She didn't reply, her eyes clenched shut. Both of her knees jerked about. A muscle in her arm rippled, and her fingers gripped the curved wooden arm of the chair. Violent twitching of the legs and agitated muscles indicated the final stages of withdrawal.

His eyes landed on the radio near the desk. Perhaps she'd find some music a helpful distraction.

Turning on the wireless, he spun the old dial until he found a local station playing smooth jazz.

Her breathing grew more labored, nearly drowning out the crooning saxophone and rambling piano melody.

"Hey, now. Take it easy." John knelt beside her chair. Her eyes were still closed and there was a grating noise. The sound of teeth grinding together.

A trumpet squealed, and she shrieked, back arching off the chair. The arms and legs of the antique groaned as she strained against the nylon bonds.

Oh god. She was going to seriously injure herself.

John threw open the window, heedless of the rain pouring in. "Sherlock!"

The chair gave an ominous creak. John whipped around and caught the edge of it before it could topple over. Rapid footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Sherlock burst through the door. The drenched detective took one look at the writhing woman, then darted to her side.

"Vivian!" He caught her thrashing head between his hands.

Miss Walker's eyes snapped open, but they were unnaturally wide, her pupils so dilated John could hardly see any green at all.

Sherlock ran his hands down her twitching arms and legs.

She screamed.

"Her entire body is cramping. We can't untie her like this. Quick! There's a pair of scissors to the left of the kitchen sink."

John left Sherlock to restrain her and sprinted out the room and downstairs. He nearly slipped on the wooden floor in the hallway from the water Sherlock had tracked inside. He slid into the kitchen, grabbed the scissors out of the drawer, and ran towards the stairs. A voice in his head which sounded suspiciously like his mother screeched for him to be careful.

Just as he summited the staircase, Miss Walker's screams ceased. The ringing silence was quickly replaced by a strangled yell from Sherlock.

John skidded into the room and nearly dropped the scissors in shock.

The scene looked like something out of a vampire horror film.

Sherlock was crouched awkwardly over the arm of the chair and Miss Walker's face was buried in the side of his neck.

Both were completely still. The only sound in the room came from Sherlock's panting breaths and the radio droning on about the weather in Balcombe.

Sherlock glared at him. "Don't just stand there. Do something!"

John hurried over, dropping the scissors onto the desk. Pushing Miss Walker's hair out of the way, he jabbed his thumbs into both sides of her jaw to get her to let go. She didn't respond.

Sherlock grunted. "If she bites down any harder on my carotid, I'm going to pass out."

"I'll have to knock her out then." John applied a pinching pressure to the artery on the right side of her neck. It would temporarily cut off the blood supply to her brain. He just hoped that when she lost consciousness her body wouldn't spasm, resulting in her taking a large bite out of his friend.

Her head dropped, then gave a jerk.

Sherlock hissed.

John wrenched her jaw open and his friend slumped to the ground, hand clutching the side of his neck.

"Are you all right?"

Sherlock got to his feet. "I'm fine. It's just a bite."

"Let me at least take a look at the damage."

He ushered Sherlock into the bathroom, opened his medical kit, and removed disinfectant, gauze, and tape.

"Go ahead and drop your hand now." John held a Betadine-soaked cotton ball at the ready.

Sherlock's hand fell away.

John stared. Miss Walker's teeth had left half-moon cuts on Sherlock's skin. It couldn't have been a more perfect bite mark if it had been drawn on. Unfortunately for Sherlock, the mark would certainly scar, and its location directly beneath his right ear would make it difficult to hide with his usual scarf or upturned coat collar.

The only sign of his friend's discomfort was a slight flinch as he applied antibacterial ointment.

"You do know you're allowed to act hacked off and curse a bit right?" John asked.

Sherlock cast a sideways glance at him. "What would be the point?"

"She bit you." John tossed the unused gauze back into his kit and removed his container of plasters. "It would be a normal human reaction."

"Miss Walker isn't exactly in her right mind. Would you blame a rabid dog for biting you?"

John snickered. "Is that your way of calling her a bitch?"

His friend sighed. "Are you quite finished?"

Somehow he'd expected Sherlock to have a stronger response, especially after the man's odd behavior down at the pond. It boggled his mind how his friend managed to divorce himself from most, if not all emotion. The only time he'd seen Sherlock truly unhinged was after his friend had been exposed to a mind-altering drug during their infamous Baskerville case. Nothing had impacted him since.

"I'm finished, but I'm afraid it's going to scar." John placed a large plaster over the bite.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's not the first time I've received an injury, and I doubt it'll be my last."

John cleaned up the mess and followed him back into the guest room.

Miss Walker remained unconscious, her bottom lip stained red with Sherlock's blood. He'd best clean her up while he had the chance.

John eyed his friend. His hair was a dripping mess, and his soaked clothing completely disheveled. "Why don't you go get cleaned up? Try not to get the plaster too wet though."

Sherlock frowned. His gaze bounced around the room.

John prodded him towards the door. "I promise I'll call you if I need any help. Now, get out, doctor's orders."

A saxophone trilled out a high-pitched solo.

Though still slumped in her seat, Miss Walker whimpered, and her head jerked to the side.

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, then strode across the room and turned off the radio.

She stilled, and a small sigh escaped her mouth.

John blinked. "Right. Not a fan of jazz then."

The detective frowned. "That's one possibility."

"You mean there's more than one?"

"Fourteen, at least. The answer couldn't possibly be so simple."

"Why not?"

His friend paused in the doorway and shot him a pointed look over his shoulder. "She's a woman."

* * *

><p>Three hours later, John sat down on the white sofa across from Sherlock, and cradled a steaming cup of tea in his hands. A shower and a change of clothing had restored his friend to his usual stylish appearance, the only out of place accessory being the plaster covering the side of his neck. Lestrade would have a field day over the bite, not to mention Mrs. Hudson. John smiled at the thought of Mycroft catching sight of it. The line of questioning would be quite entertaining.<p>

Sherlock opened his eyes. "What's so amusing?"

"Oh nothing. Traipsing about your mind palace, were you?" John blew a breath across the top of his mug.

"Yes. How is she?"

"Much better. She's been dozing in and out of sleep. It can't be comfortable with her head hanging over her arm, but at least she's resting. She's also mostly lucid now."

"Has she spoken?"

His teacup clinked as he set it down on the glass-topped chest. "Only to ask for more water. There won't be any dehydration issues with this patient."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "She's managing to keep it all down?"

"Yes. I really believe she's over the worst of it now." The guilty knot in his stomach relaxed ever so slightly.

Sherlock frowned. "Think, John. How much water has she consumed?"

"Four full glasses, maybe five. Why?"

His friend leaned forward. "And you haven't taken her to the toilet this entire time?"

John pursed his lips. "No, she hasn't asked. She did lose a great deal of water over the past few days."

Sherlock jumped to his feet and paced in front of the fireplace. "That doesn't make sense. It's too early for her system to be able to handle such a large intake of fluid."

"I watched her take a sip of water and nod off every ten minutes for the past three hours. The liquid definitely went into her mouth. I certainly didn't drink it."

His friend's pale blue eyes narrowed. "Neither did she. She'd have been sick if she had."

John folded his arms. "This is fascinating stuff. Should I include this in the blog? A study in H2O?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock spun on one foot to face him and the toe of his shoe caught on the tasseled edge of the Oriental rug. Sherlock stared down at the carpet and froze. "Nylon rope loses 15% of its strength when wet."

John's stomach dropped to his toes. "Bloody hell."

They ran for the stairs.

* * *

><p>Please leave a review if you're enjoying my story! Thank you!<p> 


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